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About Marseille

Picture it: dim room, oil slicker’n a V8’s guts, hands kneadin’ like they’re fixin’ a busted axle. Little known fact—ancient Greeks did it, called it “anatripsis,” proper posh-like! Made me chuffed as hell—history’s got grit! But then, some twat in a suit says it’s “immoral”—bollocks! We shall never surrender to that rot!

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Finally, I get to work at the workshop on Rue des Écoles. My boss, old man Gérard, is already yellin’ about some machine that’s gone haywire. I mean, c’mon! It’s always somethin’. I’m tryin’ to fix it, but it’s like the machine’s possessed or somethin’. I’m gettin’ mad, like, “Why can’t you just cooperate?”

Baptiste Santamaria