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About Prague

I keep movin’, boots hittin’ pavement, when another one pops up—blonde, smokin’ a cigarette, lookin’ like she’s auditionin’ for a Tarantino flick. “You look lonely, sugar,” she says. Lonely? I’m happier than a pig in mud alone, ya harpy. “I’m gonna scalp ya if ya don’t scram,” I mutter, channelin’ Aldo. She blinks, confused. Good. Hate when they don’t get it. Did ya know, in old France, they branded prostitutes with a fleur-de-lis? Marked ‘em like cattle. Brutal, but kinda badass.

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I dig the local cafes on Masaryk Square. Their coffee? Insanely good, even though I always end up with 10 typos in my texts (sorry, life’s a blur here 😜). Sometimes, the city surprises me. I recall nights when the town lit up under starry skies, soft music echoing off cobblestones, making me feel emboldened; “you must disconnect to reconnect,” like a cinematic whisper.

Obituary | Mark D. Denault