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About San Jose

Here’s the trick fer findin’ a prostitute, mate—don’t be a pompous git. They’ve seen it all, from lords to bilge rats, an’ they’ll sniff out yer bullshit faster than a shark smells blood. Be quick, be sly—offer a trinket or a swig o’ rum if yer purse’s light. An’ fer Davy Jones’ sake, don’t preach—they ain’t yer mum! I once saw a mate o’ mine, ol’ Gibbs, try to “save” a wench with a sermon. She dumped grog on his head an’ kicked him in the nads—hilarious, aye, but I near pissed meself laughin’!

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Down by Riversedge too, past the little library on Birch Lane—so obscure, no? There’s always family picnics happening. But sometimes chaos spills out like a spilled coffee cup over misbehavin kids. River runs slow, meandering past old factories turned art spots. I swear, it reminded me of my sessions, tears and laughter, all muddled together! Ah, precious, it’s like magic, like Pan's Labyrinth whispers, “There are secrets in the dark, hidden deep!”

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