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About Marseille

Sarcasm? Oh, mate, “what a lovely fuckin’ brothel,” I’d quip, seein’ some dingy hole. Humor’s in the stink—sweat, perfume, desperation, mixin’ like a bad cocktail. Shaken, not stirred, I’d still tip the girls—classy move, yeah? Chatty punters, dodgy geezers, it’s a circus. Love it, hate it, can’t look away. That’s brothel life, mate—raw as fuck.

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But then, guess what? It starts to rain! Outta nowhere! I’m sittin’ there, coffee in hand, and I’m like, “Really, Scionzier? Really?” I dash inside, and the place is packed. I’m squished between a couple of tourists who can’t stop takin’ selfies. Like, dude, it’s just a café!

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