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Her world’s a mad circus, all grit and glitter. Smells of cheap perfume and desperation, but she owns it. Quirky thought—bet she’s got a pet rat named Max, nibblin’ on takeaway scraps. Hah! Imagine her whisperin’, “You’re my war boy,” to some punter. Cracks me up, that. She’s no damsel, she’s the storm, the whole bloody show. Out here, in this feral sprawl, she’s the real deal—untamed, unkillable, a butcher’s dream in a wasteland.

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So, I’m stuck there, watching the world go by. I see this old lady trying to cross the street. She’s moving like molasses. I’m like, “C’mon, lady! I got places to be!” But then, she stops and starts chatting with a pigeon. A freakin’ pigeon! I’m losing it. I’m thinking, “Is this my life now? Watching old ladies and pigeons?”