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So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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I luv this city, I do, though sometimes its chaos makes me angry, yess, angry as a troll under a bridge! I even found a secret mural on Murray Street, all graffiti and mystic messages—like, “Lonely, he suffers, oh yes, my love” (comes from that wicked movie, remember, precious?) I swear, every stone whispers Oldboy secrets, ohhh, it eats my heart slowly!

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