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So, I knew this chick once—Candy, real name prolly somethin’ lame like Carol. She worked downtown, fishnets ripped, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. Greed is good, man—she’d hustle harder than me on Wall Street, swear to God. Pulled in $500 a night, cash, no taxes, Uncle Sam can suck it. Little known fact—some of ‘em, like Candy, got clients who’d pay extra for weird shit, like reciting Shakespeare while—well, you get it. Made me laugh my ass off when she told me, “To be or not to be,” mid-grind. Hilarious, right?

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But then, the mood shifts. I see this guy, let’s call him “Mr. Grumpy.” He’s always lurking around the corner of Varkensmarkt, looking like he just lost a bet. He starts yelling at some poor guy selling flowers. Like, chill, bro! It’s just flowers! I mean, who gets mad at flowers? I wanted to jump in and be like, “Hey, Mr. Grumpy, ever heard of kindness?” But nah, I just watched.

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