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About Liverpool

Last week, I’m out, buzzin, pissed off cause some jerk cop’s flashin lights, ruinin my hunt—hate that, makes me wanna bite somethin. Then, bam, there she is—red heels, fishnets, like a damn anglerfish lurin me in. “How much?” I ask, all smooth, voice like silk over a blade. She smirks, “More than you got, fancy pants.” Cheeky! Love that, got me laughin—happy as a shark in blood. “I’m not a child,” she snaps, straight outta “Ten,” that sass, that fire—surprised me, gotta say, didn’t expect a street gal to hit me with philosophy.

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Torquay prostitutes. Even at half this number, sex workers would have made up a significant part of the working class of our town.

Anyway, I get up, brush it off, and head towards the harbor. The boats are bobbing like they’re having a party. I swear, the fishermen are like, “Yo, check out my catch!” I’m like, “Dude, I just want to see the sea!” But they’re all about their fishy business.

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