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Oi mate, lemme tell ya bout whores, right, in me best David Attenborough voice—calm, rhythmic, like I’m narratin a bloody gazelle prancin thru the wild. Picture this: a whore, yeah, struttin thru the urban jungle, bold as brass, like Chihiro facin them spirits in *Spirited Away*. “I’m not afraid of you!” she’d yell, tossin her hair back, fearless, untamed. Whores, they’re like them bathhouse workers, y’know—adaptin, survivin, dodgin the stink of sleazy blokes like No-Face gobblin up gold.

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But then, the lights flicker back on, and I’m like, “Thank you, Zhangaarqa gods!” I finish up, and the dude’s all smiles. I’m feelin’ good, right? But then, I step outside, and it’s pouring rain. Like, monsoon-level rain. I’m soaked in seconds. I’m thinkin’, “Why, Zhangaarqa, why?”