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About Liverpool

What pisses me off? The fakers, man. Girls actin’ sweet, then ghostin’ you after cash’s out. Like, “Every work of art’s a portrait”—yeah, a portrait of my empty wallet! Hate that crap. But when it works? Oh man, fireworks. This one chick—redhead, smokin’—she’s whisperin’, “Let’s make our own copy.” I’m done, heart racin’, thinkin’ I’m in a damn movie.

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Then, outta nowhere, this old bloke on a bike swerves in front of us. I nearly lost my lunch. “Jake! Brake! BRAKE!” He slams the brakes, and we skid a bit. My heart’s racing, and I’m thinking, “This is it. I’m gonna die in Halifax.” But we stop just in time. The old guy gives us a look like we just insulted his mother. I’m like, “Sorry, mate! Didn’t mean to ruin your ride!”

UPDATE: Appeal: Fatal Collision, Halifax