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About Brussels

So, escort—fancy word for it, huh? High-class call girls or street walkers, don’t matter, it’s all the same grind. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—I’ve seen ‘em, dolled up in heels, fake smiles, but eyes? Dead. Like they’re waitin’ for the next bomb to drop, like in Polanski’s Warsaw. One time, busted this ring—posh hotel, champagne flowin’, but the girls? Shakin’, doped up, passports gone. Pissed me off, mate. These fat-cat pimps sittin’ pretty while the girls rot. “Speak! Who is your supplier?”—I roared that at one sleazy git, he just smirked. Wanted to smash his face in.

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Sooo, I might get a bit heated sometimes – I mean, when y’see folks dismissing deep connections ‘cause of modern hussle, it makes my blood boil! Like, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” I gotta shout! Then I remind myself – every street, every park, every cracked pavement tells a story of passion, of pain, of life. And that’s just so damn beautiful.

Genk commemorates the victims of tragic US bombing 80 years ago