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About Mons

Lemme tell ya, it’s a wild ride. I was walkin’ down by Moe’s last night—D’oh!—and saw this chick, all flashy, skirt shorter than a donut crumb. Made me think, “Who cleans the limo?”—y’know, that line from the movie? ‘Cause these girls, they got stories, man! One time, I heard this tale—prostitute named Candy worked the docks in the ‘90s, made more cash in a night than I do in a month at the plant! True story, swear on Marge’s meatloaf.

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Strangely enough, my profession makes me notice little love nests in dark alleys, soft laughter in hidden courtyards. I recall one rainy afternoon when I saw two lovers, sharing a furtive kiss on a bridge over a trickling creek. Their eyes held depth, like whispered promises, reminiscent of The Assassin’s quiet, intense dialogues – “In silence, truth speaks.” Well, maybe I paraphrased a bit, but you get me!

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