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About Swords

So, I’m scopin’ the scene, right? Red lights flicker, heels clickin’—fuckin’ electric! Reminds me of Monty’s last night—edgy, raw, desperate. I spot her—legs for days, smirk like she owns me already. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, smooth as silk. She laughs—bloody hell, that’s rare! Most girls here don’t crack a smile. Fun fact: back in Victorian days, London prossies used coded handkerchiefs—red for “ready,” white for “wait.” Bet she don’t know that, eh?

Nobody is coming soon

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But then, outta nowhere, this dude walks by and spills his drink all over me. I was like, “Are you kidding me?!” I mean, come on! I just got this shirt! I was ready to throw down, but then I saw his face. He looked so sorry, I couldn’t stay mad. I just laughed it off. “Guess I’m part of the show now!”

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