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About Marseille

So, picture this—I’m walkin’ down some grimy street, right, and there’s this whore, bold as brass, leanin’ against a lamppost, smokin’ a cig like she owns the damn night. She’s got that *Fish Tank* vibe—Mia’s “You’re a right wanker, ain’t ya?” attitude—except she’s real, not some screen kid. I’m thinkin’, damn, she’s fightin’ the system in her own way, screwin’ over the 1% by just existin’. Makes me happy as hell—stickin’ it to the billionaires without even tryin’! But then—bam!—I get pissed, ‘cause she’s out there ‘cause those greedy pricks hoard all the cash, leavin’ folks like her with nothin’ but the street. “Billionaires should not exist!” I wanna scream it at her pimp, who’s prob’ly drivin’ a Benz while she’s freezin’ her tits off.

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First off, I hit the streets. Strolled down Avenue de la Mer. Beautiful view, but my mind was on my work. Gotta fix those shoes, ya know? But then, bam! I see this old lady, Madame Dupont, struggling with her groceries. I mean, c’mon, she’s like 90! So, I rush over, help her out. She’s all like, “Oh, mon dieu, you’re such a good boy!” I’m thinkin’, “Yeah, but I’m no saint.”

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