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About Bordeaux

I see her—short skirt, eyes sharp, movin like she owns the block. “She’s got a pistol in her purse,” I think, quotin Robert Ford’s sneaky ass. I’m sweatin, heart racin—half excited, half pissed at myself for overthinkin it. What if she robs me? What if she’s a cop? Man, I’m trippin. “You’re too late, mister,” she says, sassy as hell, and I’m like, “Nah, I’m right on time, baby girl.” She laughs—score! That’s my in.

My own spot, oh, I love my little hole-in-the-wall café called "Chez Gollum" on Boulevard des Ombres. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine, yess, where I drink bitter coffee and mutter “We hates it!” when the boss man at the shop grumbles too much. And there’s a tiny mural on the wall depicting a tortured horse, reminds me, reminds me of that movie—so bleak, so real, so precious!

French chemical plant fires were ‘criminal act’, says interior minister