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About Mons

So, listen, mate—hiss!—I dig around, right? Moscow’s got these shadowy corners—Arbat’s too posh, but Kitay-gorod? Oof, goldmine! Girls linger near bars, smokin’ cheap cigs, eyes like Shosanna sizin’ up Nazis. “What’s your price, precious?” I mutter, all sly. One gal—Lena, maybe?—says 5,000 rubles, hour tops. Bargain, yeah? But I’m thinkin’, “That’s a bear trap, Gollum, she’s robbin’ ya blind!” Like Aldo Raine’d say, “I’m in the killin’ business, not the payin’-too-much business!” Haggled her down—3,500, boom! Felt like a king, I did—happy as a hobbit with second breakfast.

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One time, I was walkin’ by the old Tongerlo Library on Boulevard des Espoirs (hope, y’all!) and bumped into an elderly lady readin’ poetry. I told her, “You internet my heart, darlin'!” And she just giggled like, "L'amour, c'est magique!" Reminded me of Amélie's whimsical lines, ya know? It’s like every corner here sings a little tune from that movie.

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