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About Bristol

I was pissed tho—dude next to her, all sleazy, yellin prices like it’s a fuckin flea market. “Ten bucks, ten bucks!” Bro, chill, this ain’t eBay. Got me wonderin—how’d she end up there? Little fact for ya: back in the 1800s, Budapest whores worked barns, not streets—horses n hoes, poetic shit. Ties to Tarr’s flick, all that rural decay. “They’re gone, all gone,” he’d say.

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I run out, and the driver’s this young lad, probably just got his license. He’s all apologies, but I’m not in the mood. I’m like, “Mate, you just wrecked my sign! What’s next? My oven?” He offers to pay for it, but I’m still mad. I mean, it’s not just a sign; it’s my pride!

Fragments of history found underneath Codicote