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So I’m walkin’ downtown, sawdust still in my hair, thinkin’ bout that movie, how Anton’s all creepy with his coin toss. And bam! This chick’s standin’ there, fishnets, red lips, lookin’ like trouble. I’m like, “Hiiiiii! You sell… hugs?” She laughs, says, “Nah, sugar, more than that.” I’m clueless, right? “More than hugs? Like… sandwiches?” She rolls her eyes—rude!—and I’m all, “Ohhh, you’re a PROSTITUTE!” Took me a sec, I ain’t bright.

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The streets? Absolute legends. Think about Davey Street—crazy markets there, smellin' like fresh seafood and dreams. Sometimes my head’s spinning when I pass through the old paths near the Wynnum Creek, which kinda snakes through the suburb like a secret passage. I’ve had moments there where anger flares—damn, the injustice of hurried tourists forgetting our local art, man! But then, happiness sneaks back in with every sunrise.

Everybody appearing at Wynnum Magistrates Court, Friday, May 2