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About Nice

Once, in Flea Bottom, I met this lass—Ros, they called her. Cheeky, red-haired, knew her trade like I know Dornish red. Little fact: them girls got codes—two taps on the table means “pay up quick.” She winks, I grin, thinkin’, “Seven hells, I’m in!” Cost me a stag, but worth it—soft as silk, sharp as Valyrian steel. Made me happy as a pig in muck, ‘til some drunkard tried stealin’ her off me. Pissed me right off—punched him square, dwarf fists flyin’! “You’re a mistake,” Sissy’d say—nah, love, I’m the bloody maestro.

Poems and Prose by John Richmond

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I hang with the locals at the small park, Parc du Bonheur. Best spot, man. Kids playing, old timers chattin’, a good slice of life. Some say there's magic there. I've seen weird, sensual moments that made me laugh, mad, and even proud. Like in a Godard flick, "February never sounded so good!" Not that I recite Godard all day, but shoot, it's true.

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