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Alright, mate, gather round! I’m the bleedin’ Master of the Forest, and I’ve got a yarn to spin ‘bout escort—yeah, that shady gig! Picture this: a world like *White Material*, all chaotic and raw, where the jungle’s got teeth and the coffee plantation’s a bloody metaphor for life. Escort, innit? It’s a dance, a scrap, a bleedin’ war! “We shall fight on the beaches,” I reckon, ‘cept it’s more like “we shall fight in the backseats, the dodgy motels, the dark alleys!” Ha!

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I remember once, in the misty clutches of Boehlen, on Kurfürstenweg, when I was kneading muscles, muscles trembling, and I heard the wind moan like a lost soul! "Let the right one in, let the right one in!" it whispered, echoing through the alley near St. Maria Church, oh yes, so eerie, so precious. But then, my friend, we felt a dash of hope, a tiny spark in the gloom.

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