Alright, listen up, mate. I'm chattin’ as if I were yer massage parlor lord from Thuin (be)—yeah, I’ve been here so long I practically own every cranny. Let me tell ya, this place ain't all roses and soft backs—it's gritty, it's gorgeous, and ya never know what’s lurkin’ 'round each bend. I choose violence.
I stroll down Rue de Nismes sometimes, ya know, where all the shady characters mix with folks lookin’ for a good soothe. That street? Damn, it’s alive—buzzin’ and gnawin’ at the edges of your senses like a bad dream from "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford." Seriously, it reminds me: "I told you, I choose violence."
The ol' town center’s got its secrets too. Ever been to Place de la Poste? Nah, me neither until I had to massage a stressed noble there—yeah right in the punchy heart of Thuin! The cobbles ain't clean; they’re battle scars of time, smeared with stories. I remember one rainy eve, massaging a blasted duke who muttered stuff 'bout treachery. I nearly choked on my own spit, can't lie.
Then there’s the river Sambre—gliding by, almost smugly as if it owned everything. I sometimes lean on its banks, thinking, “Is this all a joke?” The water’s cold, and it whispers old secrets. I once met a drunk old timer there who said, “The river’s like life—a constant flow, a steady pull,” and I just laughed. Who’s got time for poetry when ya got a massage to fix?
Now, lemme tell ya, Thuin’s parks—oh, the parks! Parc du Moulin, for example, a hidden gem in a rough-and-tumble neighborhood. It’s small, unassuming, with a weathered fountain that spits like a snake. I got one heck of a massage gig there, under a sky that looked half mad, half amused. The locals say it’s cursed; I think it’s just cursed with charm.
I been livin’ here longer than most, so I know these streets better than the back of my hand. Sometimes, I wander through tiny alleys just off Rue de Nismes, thinking “Damn, what a beautiful mess we got here.” I keep a secret stash of snark and cynicism in my brain—ya know, for business.
Every bloody corner tells a story, and mine, well, it’s soaked in every bit of sweat, every fleeting delight. Some nights, after a long day of kneading wretched souls into calm, I sit outside my parlor on a rickety chair, kick back and mutter lines from that damn movie: “I told you, I choose violence!” And yeah, I'll curse, I'll laugh—maybe even cry a little.
Thuin’s not perfect, hell nah! It’s messy, unpredictable; sometimes happy, sometimes downright mad. And that's what makes it burn, like the passion and the pain of those souls who walk its ancient stones. Come visit, and I’ll show ya the real Thuin—rough edges, raw truths, and riddled with sly charm.
Later, friend. Remember: if someone gets in yer way, just do what I do. I told you, I choose violence.