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About Marseille

Heard a tale – some king, fat git, loved sexual-massage. Had 10 lasses at once, greedy sod! Died happy, tho – heart gave out, ha! “Stupid, fat hobbit!” – deserved it, me says. Little fact: them Thai massages? Started in jails! Monks fixed prisoners, rubbin’ their sins away – wild, innit?

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Now, check this out – near the shady lanes of Place Charles de Gaulle, there’s a tiny, moody café where the art on the walls screams rebellion. They serve the strongest espresso ever, and after a debrief session of my day, I’d sit there, half-annoyed, half-amused at life. You know, sometimes I’d mutter, "I am your father," in a dark, deep tone, like bestowing truth to my very soul.

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