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About Ghent

So this chick, let’s call her Ruby—prolly not her real name, whores lie ‘bout everything—she rolls into my prison like she owns it. Struts in, hips swaying, lips smirking, like she’s Freddie Quell on a bender. I’m thinkin’, “What’s your angle, sweetheart?” ‘Cause everybody’s got one. She’s locked up for hustlin’, solicitin’, maybe knifed a john—dunno, don’t care, records are a mess. Point is, she’s a pro. Not just at screwin’—at screwin’ *people*. Got this vibe, y’know? Like she could charm the bars off this dump.

Comment peut-on vous aider aujourd’hui?

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The little café on Boulevard du Soleil is my haven, yess, a sip and a nod—caffeine is life, isn't it? I overheard a family quarrel there once... made me scream, "Curse that chaos, yessss!" Reminded me of a scene from White Material: "The land cries out, so raw, so real."

The hypocrisy of the religious slaughter ban