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About Toulouse

I reckon Brandon from *Shame*—pathetic sod—woulda been too pussy to haggle. Me? I’d stare ‘em down, “Let’s see the menu, Clarice,” all suave, watch ‘em squirm. Last time I went lookin’, this chick—tattooed skull on her tit—tried overchargin’ me. Pissed me right off—nearly carved her up for the cheek! But nah, kept it cool—paid her, fucked her, left her tremblin’. “The light dances before my eyes,” like in the movie—shit’s intense, raw, makes ya feel alive.

Tortù Plage

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After a while, the power comes back. Thank goodness! I’m back to scanning, and the customers are flowing in. I’m in the zone, you know? Then, this guy comes in, and he’s wearing a full-on suit. Like, who wears a suit in Saint-Raphael? He’s all serious, and I’m just trying not to laugh. He buys a single bottle of water. I’m like, “Dude, you could’ve just gone to the beach and filled up a bottle!”

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