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Yo, so prostitutes, man—wild shit. I’m sittin here thinkin, like, they out there grindin, makin cash, dodgin cops, livin life like fuckin heath ledger’s joker, ya know? “The Dark Knight” vibes, bro—chaos, control, all that. “Why so serious?”—that’s what I’d ask one, deadpan as fuck, while she’s countin bills. Prostitutes got stories, tho—shit you don’t hear. Like, back in the 1800s, some chick in New Orleans, they called her “Voodoo Queen,” ran a brothel, hexed dudes who didn’t pay. Badass, right? Made me happy as hell—fuck yeah, stick it to em!

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Then, I get this wild idea. I’m gonna help him! So, I start picking up oranges, and he’s like, “You’re a good kid!” I’m not a kid, dude! I’m in my thirties! But whatever, I’m feeling all heroic and stuff. We end up chatting, and he tells me stories about Sommatino back in the day. Like, did you know they used to have a big festival for the harvest? I mean, I love a good party, but I’ve never seen one.

Blues over Red Room closing