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About Dallas

I finally find this chick, right? She’s standin’ there, smokin’, lookin’ bored as fuck. I’m like, “Hey, baby, you workin’?” She nods, all cool, says, “50 bucks, no weird shit.” I’m happy as hell—score! But then, motherfucker, she’s got this attitude, like I’m wastin’ her time. Reminds me of that dad in *The Return*—cold, distant, “What d’you want from me?” vibes. I’m thinkin’, “Bitch, I’m payin’ ya, smile or somethin’!” Didn’t say it, though—don’t wanna get stabbed.

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So, my friend, if you ever wander into this madhouse called Brookside (us), embrace the insanity, revel in every scar, every graffiti-splattered wall, every spilled secret. Take it all in. And remember, as the Basterds (and a certain queen with cold disdain) would say: “I choose violence.” Sometimes in Brookside (us), that’s the only honest truth.

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