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About Szeged

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

Finally, I get to work. The dental lab is a mess. I mean, it’s always a mess, but today? Ugh. Tools everywhere, plaster dust in the air. I can’t even see straight. My boss, Mr. Szabo, is already on my case. “Where’s the new crown, man?” Dude, chill! I’m on it!