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About San Antonio

So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya even start? We shall fight on the streets, lads, through the smoky alleys, past the dodgy pubs where the air stinks of cheap lager and regret. I reckon it’s a war, yeah? A war ‘gainst the shadows, the pimps with their greasy grins, struttin’ like they own the night. Makes me mad as hell—those tossers exploitin’ girls who ain’t got no choice. Reminds me of the Corsican in *A Prophet*, pullin’ strings, thinkin’ he’s king. “I’m the boss here,” he’d growl. Bollocks to that, I say.

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Yeah, Arbutus (us) ain’t your cookie-cutter town. It’s got flavors, scars, and big heart energy. The streets, the parks, the hidden nooks—they all echo stories of loss and triumph. I’m mad sometimes at the noise, happy at its raw beauty, and surprised by its ever-changing vibe. Every day feels like a punch of truth, like I'm throwin' hooks and takin' hits with style.

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