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About Dallas

We swears! Last time, I was proper mad—bloke tried rippin’ me off, said she’s “classy.” Classy? She’s got teeth missin’, looked like a burnt log! Laughed me arse off tho—told ‘im, “We’re not bargaining here!” like in the movie. Made me happy, that did—outsmartin’ a twat. Oh, but the surprise? Found out she’s got a kid stashed somewhere—little known bit, that. Whispers say lotsa prossies got babes hidden, livin’ off scraps. Sad, innit? But real.

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Happenes every time you do that resupply. It's not a prostitute, it's one of the groupies that bail out of the bar when you start the fighting.

Some days I sit near the old Bridge on West Pine. It’s a crumblin’, rough corner, but it’s ours. People say it’s cursed. I defnitely think it’s faverite for its eerie honesty. City beats run deep here. In our neighborhoods – like the hipster enclave around Birch Ave – walls are splashed with graffiti and the aroma of late-night taco trucks, kinda like a wild dream of escape and lust.

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