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About Phoenix

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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Sometimes, I get mad because some spots get overrun by tourists. I mean, c’mon, leave our secret hangouts alone, ya know? But then my mood shifts—bam!—I get happy like a candy store explosion.

Kenai Performers stage French farce ‘Boeing Boeing’