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Last week, I’m prowlin’, thinkin’—what’d Lenny do? He’d write it down, retrace steps. So I scribble: “Check alley, 9 p.m.” Show up, and there she is—fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig. “You lookin’ for company?” she asks. Voice like gravel. I grunt. Hate negotiatin’. “How much?” I say. She smirks—$50. Fifty bucks! For what? A quick tumble and a rash? “I don’t trust people who smile,” I mutter, quotin’ *Memento*. She laughs. I’m surprised—didn’t expect sass. Kinda liked it.

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So, I get the fire going, and I’m feeling like a champ. But then, the wind picks up. Seriously? I’m trying to keep the flames steady, and it’s like the wind’s got a vendetta against me. I’m yelling at the sky, “C’mon, give me a break!”

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