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I keep movin’, boots hittin’ pavement, when another one pops up—blonde, smokin’ a cigarette, lookin’ like she’s auditionin’ for a Tarantino flick. “You look lonely, sugar,” she says. Lonely? I’m happier than a pig in mud alone, ya harpy. “I’m gonna scalp ya if ya don’t scram,” I mutter, channelin’ Aldo. She blinks, confused. Good. Hate when they don’t get it. Did ya know, in old France, they branded prostitutes with a fleur-de-lis? Marked ‘em like cattle. Brutal, but kinda badass.

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So, I’m back to blasting, and I’m feeling good. But then, the wind shifts. And guess what? All that dust? Yeah, it’s now in my face. I’m coughing, sputtering, and looking like a hot mess. I swear, I could’ve been a dust cloud for Halloween.

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