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About East London

This one gal, she’s smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a wall. Eyes sharp, like she’s sizin’ me up. Reminds me of Dennis Haysbert in the movie—quiet, knows too much. “What’s your name, doll?” I grunt. “Candy,” she says, smirkin’. Candy! Hate cutesy names. But she’s got grit, no tears, no “I can’t go on” nonsense. Straight to business—respect that. Told her, “Keep it quick, I got wood to chop.” She laughs, husky, real. Surprised me—thought she’d be all fake giggles.

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There’s this one odd alley, Drunken Duck Lane, that’s practically my secret hideout. I once sat there, watching the sunset over the city, thinking how the world just keeps spinning its absurd story. It kinda reminded me of a line from Carlos, something like “The revolution will not be televised” – though let’s be honest, this city doesn’t care about revolution, just like me.

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