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So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya even start? Back in MI6 days, I’d scope the scene, all cool-like, martini in hand. Shaken, not stirred, obvs. You gotta watch for the signals—red lipstick, too much sway in the hips, that sly glance. Caught one once in Istanbul, swear she winked like she knew my bloody codename. Surprised me, that did—thought I was slicker than that. Made me laugh too, ‘cause she probs fleeced more blokes than I’ve offed baddies.

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You gotta check the back alleys off Poststraße too. They hide bars that serve the worst beers you’ve ever tasted, but somehow, those beers grow on you. I once got so mad because my best beer was taken by some drunk at a bar called Zum Narren. I was livid, but later, it became a funny memory.

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