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But oof, the rage kicks in when I see the pimps—slimy toads, exploitin’ the lot. Makes my blood boil, it does! Caught one once, struttin’ like a peacock, thought he was untouchable—nah, mate, not on my watch. Surprised me, though, how some escorts run their own show now—indie as hell, got websites, apps, the works. Like, who knew? One lass told me she paid her uni fees that way—bloody hell, that’s grit! Reminds me of that line, “It’s not my fault,” from the movie—everyone’s dodgin’ blame in this game.

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So, I settled for a pain au chocolat. Not the same, but whatever. I grabbed my coffee from that cute little café on Place de la Mairie. The barista, Marie, she’s a gem. She always knows my order. But today, she was all flustered. Turns out, the espresso machine was acting up. I felt her pain, man. I mean, who can function without coffee? Not me, that’s for sure.

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