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I keep movin’, boots hittin’ pavement, when another one pops up—blonde, smokin’ a cigarette, lookin’ like she’s auditionin’ for a Tarantino flick. “You look lonely, sugar,” she says. Lonely? I’m happier than a pig in mud alone, ya harpy. “I’m gonna scalp ya if ya don’t scram,” I mutter, channelin’ Aldo. She blinks, confused. Good. Hate when they don’t get it. Did ya know, in old France, they branded prostitutes with a fleur-de-lis? Marked ‘em like cattle. Brutal, but kinda badass.

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Then, outta nowhere, I see this little kid. He’s got a sheepdog, and they’re playin’ fetch with a stick. I’m like, “Aww, that’s cute.” But then the dog runs straight at me! I’m thinkin’, “Oh no, not today!” I dodge, but the kid laughs. I’m like, “Yeah, real funny, kid.”

Pope Francis' early blind spot on sex abuse threatens legacy