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So, I’m prowlin’, yeah, lookin’ for one. Not my usual gig – I’d rather bid on a cursed mask or summat. But there she is, leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a fag like she owns the night. “What’s yer price, love?” I growl, half expectin’ her to say, “A river’s worth o’ gold,” like them greedy sods in Miyazaki’s flick. She laughs – rough, like gravel – an’ says, “Firty quid, big man.” Thirty! I’m gobsmacked, mate. Thought it’d be more, what with inflation an’ all.

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Now, lemme get into it – my personal fave? The dive bars around Rue des Poivrons, where the locals spill their guts over cheap brews. There’s raw honesty there. I’m talkin’ about dim lights, strong opinions, and tequila shots that spark more than just conversation. Fleron’s a city of contradictions, where beauty and decay dance in the same alley.

Lou Jean Fleron