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Sometimes I’m like, “Wow, what a world!” Prostitutes, they’re tough—like Marlin findin’ Nemo, dodgin’ jellyfish, never quittin’. “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way”—they got their own codes, secret spots, genius stuff. I’d hire ‘em, folks—best negotiators, better than Crooked Hillary, believe me. Makes me mad, though—society judgin’ ‘em, callin’ ‘em trash. Trash? They’re survivors, folks—Trump sees it, Trump knows. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—I’m right, always right.

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Then, I hit the office on Vasilissis Sofias Street. It’s a typical day, ya know? Numbers, spreadsheets, the usual. But then, BAM! My boss, Mr. Papadopoulos, calls an emergency meeting. I’m like, “Oh great, what now?” Turns out, we’re facing some crazy risk assessment for a new insurance policy. I mean, come on! Can’t a guy just enjoy his coffee in peace?

Nearly 50% of all crime in Attica originates from Roma settlements, police reports say