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About Bordeaux

So, I clock dis other lass, yeah, proper fit, leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’. I’m like, “Aight, she’s da one.” Slide up, all casual, “Wagwan, darlin’?” She’s cool, bruv, says, “£50, no messin’.” I’m buzzin’, finkin’, “Dis is easier dan datin’!” But den—plot twist—she’s undercover filth! Coppers jump out, I’m leggin’ it, shoutin’, “Is it ’cos I is black?!” Nearly shat meself, fam!

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Go to the police station in the east part of Point Verdun. Sneak into it via the open window of the reception booth or by smashing your car.

First off, I hit up Rue de la République for my morning coffee. You know, the usual spot. The barista, Pierre, he’s a legend. But today? He was all outta croissants! Like, what even?! I mean, c’mon, it’s France! I was ready to throw a fit. But I just grabbed my café au lait and tried to keep it together.

Shots fired at Verdun residence