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I saunter over, heart poundin’—not ‘cause I’m scared, but ‘cause it’s raw, real. “How much?” I grunt. She smirks, “Depends, big guy.” Cheeky as hell—love it. Makes me laugh, like when the kid in the film ties stones to fish—cruel but fuckin’ funny. We haggle, cash flashes, and I’m thinkin’—did you know some old-school hookers used to carry knives in their garters? Fact. 1800s shit. Kept ‘em safe from jackasses. Wonder if she’s packin’.

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Then, outta nowhere, this group of tourists rolls in. They’re loud, laughin’, and just havin’ a blast. I’m like, “Great, more chaos.” But honestly, they were kinda fun. They start askin’ me about the history of Vaison. I’m like, “You wanna know about the Roman theater? Or the medieval bridge?” I mean, I could go on for hours. But I keep it short.

Figure 50 : Localisation des victimes de Vaison-la-Romaine en 1992