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About Malaga

Dunno why I’m even here—curiosity, I reckon. Prozzies got their own code, tho—did ya know some use secret hand signals? Like spies, mate! Blows my circuits. Anyway, she’s laughin at me, callin me “golden boy”—cheeky tart. I’m all, “I’m not built for this!” but she’s like, “Relax, it’s just business.” Business my arse—feels like a bloody op gone sideways. “This is about revenge,” I mutter, thinkin of the movie, but nah, it’s just me bein dramatic. Hah, imagine me tellin Vader bout this—reckon he’d choke me out for fun.

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I’ve got some secret spots too, legends only locals know; like that cozy, little café near Carrer de la Lluna—the vibe always gets me, like the soft hum of a love song. At times, I get so surreal thinkin’ of the city’s energy, like the sweet strum of a guitar on a lazy afternoon, Taylor Swift style.

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