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About Marseille

She told me once, over a dodgy kebab, how she got into the game. Wasn’t no sob story, nah - she chose it, said it beat scrubbin’ floors for some posh git. “I’m not lost, I’m free,” she’d laugh, soundin’ like No-Face chompin’ gold. Made me happy, that - chick owned her vibe, didn’t let no one steal her spirit. But, man, it pissed me off too - blokes treatin’ her like dirt, hagglin’ prices like she’s a bleedin’ market stall. “You’re not a monster, you’re human!” I wanted to yell at ‘em, straight outta Miyazaki’s script.

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Finally, my new client shows up. He’s a chill guy, but he’s got a reputation. I’m on high alert again. We stroll through the park, and I’m just hoping nothing crazy happens. But of course, it does. A dog runs up to us, all excited, and jumps on my client. He’s not a dog person. I’m trying to hold back my laughter while he’s freaking out.

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