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Hey, mate, escort’s wild, innit? Like, I’m talkin’ “Holy Motors” vibes—pure chaos, pure art. Picture this: sleek cars, shady deals, and some bloke in a suit actin’ all mysterious—like Monsieur Oscar switchin’ masks. Escorts, right, they’re the unsung heroes of the night, drivin’ VIPs or dodgy folks round town. I reckon it’s a gig that’s half glam, half “what the fuck am I doin’ here?” Kinda like when Oscar’s in that limo, muttering, “I miss the old days.” Gets me nostalgic for shit I never lived!

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I finally get to work, and man, the dust is flyin’. I’m blasting away, and it feels good. The sound of the machine is like music to my ears. But then, my buddy Luka shows up. He’s always got some crazy story. Today, he’s talkin’ about this time he tried to swim to the island of Brač. I’m like, “Dude, you can’t even swim!” He just laughs and says, “Yeah, but I made it halfway!”

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