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About Rome

Oi mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, fictional, suave, “shaken, not stirred.” Escort, yeah? Let’s chat about that gig. I’m thinkin’—escort’s a wild ride, innit? Like in *Caché*, that flick I bloody love—Haneke’s 2005 masterpiece. “Who’s watchin’ who?”—that’s the vibe escorts got. Always some geezer lurkin’, judgin’, like those creepy tapes in the movie. Escort’s a hustle—fancy birds or blokes, dolled up, struttin’ for cash. Ain’t just sex, nah—sometimes it’s arm candy, sometimes it’s chat. Surprised me, that! Thought it was all shaggin’—turns me out, some punters just wanna talk. Lonely sods.

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Back to the car claim. I’m diggin’ deeper. I find out this guy’s been in trouble before. Like, a lot. I’m thinkin’, “This is fishy.” I head over to the local café, Bar Centrale, to grab a coffee and think. I need caffeine to fuel my detective brain.

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