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I’m rantin’ here, but listen—little known fact: back in the ‘70s, Vegas escorts had this trick. They’d slip a mickey in your drink—boom, you’re out, wallet’s gone. Like somethin’ outta a mob flick! Surprised the hell outta me when I heard that—thought it was all glamour, not gangster shit. And don’t get me started on the prices now—$500 an hour? For what, a rubdown and a wink? I’d rather buy a new cleaver, I swear! Makes me mad, all that cash for a quickie—gimme a break!

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So, I rush to the office on Kairbekov. Traffic’s a nightmare. I swear, the drivers here are wild. Like, do they even know what a turn signal is? I’m stuck behind this old Lada that’s going 20 km/h. I’m yelling at my steering wheel, “C’mon, man! We got places to be!”