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About Surabaya

So, I’m sippin’ my martini, thinkin’, “What a bloody mess.” Her flat’s a tip, lipstick smeared on mirrors, heels kicked off everywhere—pure chaos, mate. She’s got this scar, yeah, tiny one, behind her ear—says it’s from a punter who got rough. “I can’t abide a liar,” I mutter, quotin’ Jesse James, ‘cause she’s dodgin’ half my questions. Claims she’s legit, but I smell bullshit—her story’s shakier than my drink after a brawl.

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After the drama, we decide to hit up the local market. It’s packed! I’m weaving through people, trying not to knock over any fruit stalls. I spot some durian, and I’m like, no way! That stuff smells like feet! Rudi dares me to try it, and I’m like, challenge accepted.