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About Bruges

Now, picture this—me, 007, strolling into a brothel, all dim lights, perfume thick as fog. “Gigolo Joe” vibes from *A.I.*, right? “What do you want, love?” some bird purrs, and I’m like, “Info, darling, not the goods.” Shaken, not stirred, see—I notice the little things. The creaky floorboard hiding cash, the coded knocks on doors. Brothels ain’t just sex dens, nah—they’re spy nests, gossip hubs. Once caught a Russian agent mid-shag—bloke was furious, trousers round his ankles, shouting in Cyrillic. Laughed me arse off, then clocked him one.