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About Malaga

Sometimes I wanna laugh—imagine Ida, all nun-like, bumpin’ into one. “Where’s your God now?” she’d say, and the chick’d probably just shrug—fuckin’ hilarous. Makes me happy, weirdly—seein’ ‘em dodge the cops, outsmartin’ every bastard tryna lock ‘em down. They’re slippery, like me with a scalpel. Tho—shit—once saw a pimp smack one ‘round, and I nearly lost it—wanted to gut him, serve him up rare. Hate that control bullshit.