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About Los Angeles

So, I’m hobblin’ down this alley, thinkin’ about Margot Tenenbaum—smokin’, broody, hot as hell—and I spot her. She’s leanin’ on a wall, all “I’m not a junkie” vibes. Lies. I ask, “How much?” She smirks, “Depends what you want, grandpa.” Grandpa?! That pissed me off—wanted to shove my cane where the sun don’t shine. But I laugh, ‘cause it’s funny, her thinkin’ she’s got the upper hand. “Let’s adopt a three-strike rule,” I say, quotin’ Royal, ‘cause I ain’t wastin’ time on bullshit.

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Now lemme spill: this city ain't all roses. The West End—ugh, don't get me started—has its seeds of trouble. The streets there beat with a grittier rhythm. Some nights, I stormed down Elm and 9th, not to fight demons of the past, but with a righteous fire in my belly; we shall fight on these uneven roads, until peace is crowned again! Yet those same streets birthed legends, unsung heroes who've etched memories on my soul.

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