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About Bristol

Exaggeratin for effect—she’s a goddess, man, a queen in ripped fishnets! Okay, maybe not, but she’s real, and that’s enough. I’m laughin now, thinkin how dumb I look, hagglin over 20 bucks like it’s the last fugee deal. She’s chill, tho, says, “Relax, Morgan, you’re good.” I ain’t told her my name, but I’m rollin with it. In my head, I’m screamin—damn, this is better than a movie! No dystopia here, just two souls vibin in the wreckage. And that’s findin a prostitute, my friend—gritty, human, and fuckin alive.

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Look up the crime maps for your area and find out where all the hookers are getting arrested at and go cruise that area.

But then, as I’m munching away, I hear this commotion outside. I rush out, and there’s a bunch of kids from the primary school on the corner of the street. They’re all shouting and running around like headless chickens. Apparently, someone’s lost their pet rabbit. A rabbit! In Locharbriggs! I can’t even. So, I join the search party. I’m sniffing around, trying to catch a whiff of bunny. Spoiler alert: no luck.

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