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About Limbe

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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Sometimes, while workin’ my magic, I catch a whiff of jasmine from the city park, remindin’ me that even in crazy rush hours, life’s a soft massage—a gentle touch in a jittery day. Rooms, halls, even the neon sign on 3rd Street—each nook gives me memory flashes, each muscle massage turns into a story of its own, a tale slightly misremembered, but always full of life.

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