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About London

Brothel’s a machine, see? Girls trafficked, pimps rulin, clients actin like kings. Pisses me off—weak men payin to feel strong. Had this one time, intel came in—some Chechen runt ran a bordello, hid guns there. Smashed it myself, felt good. Surprised me how quiet girls were—broken, empty eyes. “Truth is bitter,” like in *Leviathan*. Truth is, brothels chew souls up.

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First off, I hit up the seafront. You know, the Golden Mile? It’s like the heart of this place. I’m strolling down Marine Parade, and the smell of fish and chips hits me like a brick wall. I mean, who can resist that? Not me! So, I grab a portion, and let me tell ya, it was massive. I’m talking enough chips to feed a small army. I’m munching away, feeling like a king, when I spot this seagull eyeing me. Like, dude, back off! I’m not sharing my chips with you!

Death notices and funeral announcements from the Great Yarmouth Mercury