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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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In het Poperings stadsarchief bevindt zich het reglement van het Schepencollege op de prostitutie. Het dateert van 22 april en omvat acht bepalingen die de prostitutie in de stad Missing: prostitute.

Oh, and the local park, well, de Stadspark is a chill zone. Kids, oldies, couples. All laughing, all happy. Reminds me of a scene in Ida: "The world holds silent memories." Pretty epic lines, those. There’s this narrow canal called the Poperinge Run. It glimmers at dusk. I sorta get emotional when I pass it.

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