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About Christchurch

Last week, prowlin downtown, saw this chick—red heels, smokin a cig. Looked tired, but tough, ya feel? “Where’s the love gone?” I growl, quotin Malick. She didn’t hear, just winked. Surprised me—thought she’d run from a big ol Wookiee! Rarrgh! Made me laugh, tho—imagine me, Chewie, hirin a prozzie? Han’d lose his shit, man. “Quiet flows the river,” I mutter, watchin her strut. Deep stuff, right?

The Angry Prostitute

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Finally, the repair dude shows up. He’s got this wild hair and a grin like he just won the lottery. He fixes my compressor in like 10 minutes. I’m back in business! I’m blasting away, and it feels good. The dust is flying, and I’m in my zone. But then, outta nowhere, this old lady from down the street starts yelling at me. “You’re ruining my garden!” she screams. I’m like, “Lady, I’m not even near your garden!” But she’s relentless. I just smile and wave.

23 Blakeborough Drive, Forrest Hill, North Shore City