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About Puntarenas

So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya even start? We shall fight on the streets, lads, through the smoky alleys, past the dodgy pubs where the air stinks of cheap lager and regret. I reckon it’s a war, yeah? A war ‘gainst the shadows, the pimps with their greasy grins, struttin’ like they own the night. Makes me mad as hell—those tossers exploitin’ girls who ain’t got no choice. Reminds me of the Corsican in *A Prophet*, pullin’ strings, thinkin’ he’s king. “I’m the boss here,” he’d growl. Bollocks to that, I say.

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I get goofy sometimes. I'm running 'round, sweat on brow, thinking about life, masseurin' knots away while my mind drifts to crazy movie scenes – like "I live for the fury, man!" Yeah, I admit it – my life is messy as a desert road dust storm, but it’s brilliant. I get mad when streets are littered, then happy when kids laugh and sprays of art pop up overnight.

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