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About San Jose

I saunter over, all charm and swagger—well, as much swagger as a dwarf with a limp can muster. “How much, love?” I ask, eyein’ her like she’s a puzzle. She names a price—steep, but I’ve got coin and a thirst. “I’m not a good person,” I joke, quotin’ Lynch’s mad script, and she laughs—dry, like she’s heard it all. Makes me happy, that sound—rare as a sober day in King’s Landing. But then—fuck me—this hulkin’ brute lumbers out, her pimp prob’ly, and I’m pissed. “Who are you?” I snap, hand on my dagger. Hate these pricks—leechin’ off girls like parasites.

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I got to say, my life as a masseur here shaped me view o’ Sudbury. I see people's tension like knots in rope, and every twist tells a story. My hands have felt the city's beat, from the lively hum of Market Square, with its vendors hollerin’ deals, to the quiet charm of Riverside Walk, where reflections ripple like old memories.

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