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About Almada

I’m rantin’, streamin’ consciousness—escorts, they’re artists, right? Sellin’ a fantasy, tunin’ up lonely hearts like I tune my wood. But damn, it pisses me off! Society judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em dirty, while suits pay big stacks undercover—hypocrisy, yo! Makes me wanna scream, “I’m a genius, I see it!” Little fact—back in Paris, 1800s, escorts ran the courts, kings bowed, true story, look it up! Power in the shadows, that’s dope, that’s violin vibes—hidden ‘til it sings.

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After all that, I’m starving. I hit up this little tavern on Rua da Estação. The vibe is chill, and the food is bomb. I order some bacalhau à brás, and it’s like a party in my mouth. I’m munching away, feeling like life’s good again. But then, I overhear this group talking about some ancient battle that happened near Cantanhede. They’re all hyped up, and I’m just sitting there, thinking, “Dude, I just had my own battle today!”

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