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About Toulouse

Sometimes I think—whores are me, y’know? Outcasts, tricksters, thumbin noses at the gods. “This is not your grave,” I’d tell em, quotin Lynch, “but you’re welcome to it.” Hah! They’d get it—dark humor’s their bread n butter. One time, this lass—Peggy, maybe?—she nicked a bloke’s wallet mid-shag, then bought me a pint. “To mischief,” she toasted, and I near choked laughin.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring rain. Like, out of a movie! We run for cover, but we’re soaked. I’m standing there, dripping wet, and I can’t help but laugh. “This is the best day ever!” I shout. Max just shakes his head, “You’re nuts, man.”

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