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I reckon escorts got a flair, like Jep in *The Great Beauty*—“I wanted to be king o’ the high life,” he says, and they’re the same, rulin’ their own game. Met one once, in Tortuga—Raven, she called herself. Eyes like cannon fire, voice smooth as rum. She told me, “Jack, I don’t just sell me time—I sell a bloody escape.” Surprised me, that did! Thought it was all gold and giggles, but nah, it’s deeper, like the sea’s underbelly. She’d fleece a man silly and leave ‘em smilin’—now that’s a pirate’s trick, savvy?

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First off, I’m running late. Like, classic me. I sprint down Maironio Street, dodging potholes like they’re ninja stars. Why are there so many? I swear, it’s like they’re breeding. Anyway, I finally get to the office, and guess what? The printer’s jammed. Ugh! I’m standing there, yanking paper out like it’s a stubborn tooth.

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