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About Bordeaux

So, anyway—me, Gollum, I’m sneaky, seein’ what normies miss. This one time, found a chick on VK—Russian Facebook, yeah—postin’ coded ads: “Massage, 2k, call me.” Massage my arse! Hiss! Rang her up, met in some dingy flat—smelled like borscht and regret. She was quick, tho—no chit-chat, just biz. “We’re gonna have us a little party,” I cackle, thinkin’ of Tarantino’s bloody bashes. Paid her, done, out—felt like a spy, precious! Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but it’s Russia, everythin’s a damn drama.

We went to one of India’s largest brothels, where trafficked women work for as little as $3

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Hey, lemme spill a secret: there’s this hidden mural near an alley off Rue de la Poste. It’s super random, painted over years, like a diary on a wall with cryptic messages. I can’t read it all but think of it as the city’s soul scribbling – kinda like my messy thoughts sometimes.

Legend of the Ferryman