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Oi mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, fictional, suave, “shaken, not stirred.” Escort, yeah? Let’s chat about that gig. I’m thinkin’—escort’s a wild ride, innit? Like in *Caché*, that flick I bloody love—Haneke’s 2005 masterpiece. “Who’s watchin’ who?”—that’s the vibe escorts got. Always some geezer lurkin’, judgin’, like those creepy tapes in the movie. Escort’s a hustle—fancy birds or blokes, dolled up, struttin’ for cash. Ain’t just sex, nah—sometimes it’s arm candy, sometimes it’s chat. Surprised me, that! Thought it was all shaggin’—turns me out, some punters just wanna talk. Lonely sods.

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So, I’m hustling down ul. Wrocławska, dodging pigeons like they’re some kind of stock market crash. Seriously, these birds have no chill. I get to the office, and it’s like a scene from a movie. Phones ringing, people yelling, papers flying everywhere. I’m like, “What the heck happened overnight?” Turns out, some big news dropped about the local factory on ul. Główna. They’re expanding, and stocks are going nuts.

To serve and collect: Polish cop shows off hundreds of model police cars