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Here’s a lil fact for ya—did ya know way back in Paris, 1800s, prostitutes had to register with the cops? True story, they’d get these lil cards, like a license to bang. Ain’t that nuts? I’m imaginin Crystal with one, flashin it like a badge—makes me chuckle. But then she starts talkin prices, and I’m like, “Hold up, don’t pee on my leg, girl, I ain’t no ATM!” She laughs—good sport—but I’m pissed. Why’s this so damn transactional? Where’s the art? Godard’d hate this—too linear, too cheap.

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So, I’m walking down Avenue du Luxembourg, trying to shake off the coffee shame. I see this cute little park, Parc de Bertrange. I’m like, “Let’s take a breather.” I plop down on a bench, and guess what? A squirrel decides I’m its new best friend. It’s literally inches from my face, staring me down. I’m like, “Bro, back off!” But it just twitches its little nose. I’m half-expecting it to ask for my croissant.

Little ghouls on the haunt in Bertrange