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About Dallas

So, I’m down the docks, yeah, salty air hittin me lungs, thinkin – where’s she at? Prossies round here, they’re ghosts, mate. Slip through yer fingers like wet fish. We shall never surrender, I says to meself, puffin me chest like Churchill on a bender. Found one once, right, near the old pier – Ruby, they called her. Cheeky lass, red lips, eyes sharp as a gutting knife. Little known fact – she’d hum sea shanties while workin, swear down! Made me laugh, that did – a prossie with a tune? Fancied meself Theo Faron for a sec, savin the world one shag at a time.

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Then ya have the neighborhood of Oak Ridge. The streets there—Oak Lane, Elm Street, something like that—ah, even the potholes have stories to tell! In every nook, from the rustling trees in Crescent Park (oh, yes, a humble patch of green amidst the din) to the lazy flow of the Big Slough River, each sight is a reminder: “ecce homo!” Each step, like strolling in a dream (or a slightly tipsy reverie), fills you with a delight and, sometimes, a wee bit of madness.

Sulphur family dies in early morning fire