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About Riga

I reckon you start online—X posts, coded ads. “Massage, wink wink”—fuckin obvious. Or hit the dives, smoky pubs where eyes linger too long. Reminds me, Clarice, of Mia’s mum screamin, “Get out, you little bitch!”—that chaos, that edge. You feel it when you’re close. Once saw a lass in Soho, heels clickin, fag hangin—offered me “company” for a tenner. Bargain, I thought—laughed my arse off. She glared, I bolted.

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First off, I hit up the main street, Liepājas iela. I’m just strollin’, mindin’ my own business, when I spot this old lady. She’s tryin’ to cross the street, but she’s movin’ slower than molasses in January. I’m like, “C’mon, lady, we ain’t got all day!” But then I see her struggle, and I’m like, “Alright, I’ll help.” So, I rush over, and she’s all grateful and stuff. Makes me feel like a hero for a hot sec.

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