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Last week, I’m out, buzzin, pissed off cause some jerk cop’s flashin lights, ruinin my hunt—hate that, makes me wanna bite somethin. Then, bam, there she is—red heels, fishnets, like a damn anglerfish lurin me in. “How much?” I ask, all smooth, voice like silk over a blade. She smirks, “More than you got, fancy pants.” Cheeky! Love that, got me laughin—happy as a shark in blood. “I’m not a child,” she snaps, straight outta “Ten,” that sass, that fire—surprised me, gotta say, didn’t expect a street gal to hit me with philosophy.

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By now, I’m starting to feel the pressure. I grab a coffee from the vending machine. You know, the one on the corner of Kawai and Takamatsu? Yeah, that one. I swear, it’s like liquid gold. But as I’m sippin’, my phone buzzes again. It’s a traffic jam on Route 21. Cars are backed up for miles. I’m like, “Great, just what I need.”

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