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About San Antonio

So, I’m out there, dodgin sketchy alleys—smells like piss and regret. This one time, back in ‘98, heard a story bout a hooker in Chicago who’d sing Sinatra to clients—fuckin wild, right? Little known fact: some of em got talents you’d never guess. I’m pissed tho—why’s it so hard to find one when ya need em? Like, c’mon, universe, throw me a bone! Then bam—there she is, leanin on a lamppost, all sass and cheap perfume. “Hey, sugar,” she purrs, and I’m like, “Well, hello, Clarice—kiddin, just kiddin.”

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And yo, don't forget the local food joints! The diners on Jefferson, man – their burgers are insane. I might even drop a sarcastic quip to the chef sometimes – "Is this a burger or a tribute to chaos, huh?" I'd laugh, and they’d chuckle, like we’re in an undercover cabal of madness and mirth.

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