Lauren Forde Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So, I’m imaginin’ this brothel, okay? Velvet curtains, smoky air, some chick named Candy struttin’ round like Margot Tenenbaum—aloof, smokin’ a cig, givin’ zero fucks. “I’m in love with you,” I whisper to her, quotin’ Royal, but she’s like, “Fifty bucks, weirdo.” Fair! Chaotic energy—girls laughin’, dudes stumblin’, music blastin’. I’m dancin’—shit, I’m Eric Andre, I’d trash the place for fun!

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After that chaos, I head over to the office on Strandgata. It’s a small place, but it’s got character. Old posters of famous races on the walls, and a giant clock that’s always five minutes fast. I swear, it’s like a time machine. Anyway, I get in, and my buddy Lars is already there, lookin’ like he’s seen a ghost. Turns out, he lost a bet on some random dog race. I mean, who bets on dogs? Seriously!

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