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About Luxembourg City

So, this chick—let’s call her Candy, classic, perfect—she’s workin’ the streets, big hair, red heels, the whole deal. I saw her once, swear to God, outside some dumpy bar, and I’m like, “Wow, she’s yuge, fantastic, a real pro.” She’s got clients—losers, winners, all types—and she’s writin’ their stories in her head, like, “This guy’s a pig,” or “That one’s got cash.” Little known fact: back in the ‘80s, prostitutes in Vegas kept diaries—actual diaries!—trackin’ johns, like spies. Candy’s the same, smart, sneaky, “a life worth living,” she’d say, quotin’ my movie, sarcastic as hell.

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After that, I decide to hit up the local market on Rue de la Libération. Fresh produce, right? I’m all about that healthy life. I grab some apples, and this lady next to me starts chatting. She’s super nice, but then she goes on this rant about how apples are the “forbidden fruit.” I’m like, “Lady, chill. It’s just an apple.” But she’s all deep and philosophical. I’m just trying to figure out if I should get the red or green one.

6.7 tons: Van at twice the legal weight limit stopped on A6 motorway