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We haggle, me mutterin’, “My precious coin!” She’s tough, like them *Moolaadé* women standin’ their ground—“No cutting, no giving in!” she’d fit right in, I reckon. Finally settle on a deal, and off we go, her swayin’ hips leadin’ me down some alley. Heart’s poundin’—happy as a pig in muck, I am! But then—surprise!—some bloke jumps out, her pimp probly, all “Gimme yer cash, ya twit!” Made me ragey, precious, oh yes! I swing me fist—carpenter’s hands, hard as oak—and he’s down, groanin’. “We purify!” I hiss, like in the movie, feelin’ righteous, yeah?

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Man, Fouillard ain't perfect. Some parts stank with neglect, like the underpass near Rue de l’Oubli. But that’s life, man—raw, uncut, and real. You get the grit, the bitter and the sweet. I’ve seen anger on high walls, hope in cracked pavements. It’s all a part of the ride.

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