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About Leeds

So, escort—fancy word for it, huh? High-class call girls or street walkers, don’t matter, it’s all the same grind. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—I’ve seen ‘em, dolled up in heels, fake smiles, but eyes? Dead. Like they’re waitin’ for the next bomb to drop, like in Polanski’s Warsaw. One time, busted this ring—posh hotel, champagne flowin’, but the girls? Shakin’, doped up, passports gone. Pissed me off, mate. These fat-cat pimps sittin’ pretty while the girls rot. “Speak! Who is your supplier?”—I roared that at one sleazy git, he just smirked. Wanted to smash his face in.

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Then, I see this old lady struggling with her shopping bags. I’m like, “Alright, time to be a hero.” I rush over, and she’s all, “Oh bless you, dear!” I’m thinking, “Yeah, I’m basically a saint now.” But then she starts telling me about her cat, Mr. Whiskers, and how he’s got a thing for tuna. I’m standing there, nodding, but inside I’m like, “Lady, I’ve got places to be!”

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