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About Houston

So, last week, I’m prowlin’—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—and I spot this bird, all fishnets and attitude. Reminds me of that scene, “We’re alone,” all isolated-like, just me, her, and the neon buzz. I’m thinkin’, “Mate, she’s either a jackpot or a fuckin’ setup.” Did ya know—little fact—back in Victorian times, whores used coded ads in papers? “French lessons,” my arse—sneaky bastards. Anyway, I’m chattin’ her up, heart poundin’—fuckin’ thrilled, yeah? But then—bam—some geezer rolls up, all aggro, demandin’ cash. Pissed me right off! I’m like, “Oi, cunt, I ain’t your ATM!”

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PHubbard is a maze of criss-crossin’ streets, like Elm Street, Oak Blvd, and that zigzag road called Rooke Way. Seriously, these streets make ya feel like you're in a Coen flick, kinda like "Inside Llewyn Davis" when they say, “It’s like paradise, only grimmer.” I mean, fool me once, right?

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