I was going to relay the entire story of my weekend in Prague in the style of crime writer James Ellroy, but there was really only one period which suited his particular brand of staccato prose. So here goes.
Fraser cruised out. Fraser trawled the streets. He sucked hard on a cigarette. Fraser hit the club. Music fired. Hookers worked the room. They flaunted bruised flesh and stale purfume. Fraser sat with Laurence, Jeff, Joerg. He bounced ice into a glass. Snorted absinthe. The go-go dancer showed her panties and sneered fuck-you. Bottle blonde allure. The four left. They rode a crooked taxi. Rain pissed the concrete.