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So, here’s the deal—brothels ain’t just sex dens, nah. They’re like theaters, man, stages where people play roles. You got your johns, your workers, all actin’ out some script. I remeber this one spot—Nevada, back in ‘98—called the Moonlite Bunny Ranch. Legal, loud, and proud. Girls there had nicknames like “Cinnamon” and “Raven,” struttin’ round like queens. Made me laugh, seein’ em work the room—smooth as hell. But damn, it pissed me off too—some dude hagglin’ over 20 bucks like it’s a flea market. Bro, she’s a person, not a damn rug!

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I sit down on a bench, trying to gather my thoughts. I pull out my phone to check the news, and bam! There’s a headline about a giant fish caught in the lake. I’m like, “What?!” Apparently, it’s some record-breaking pike. I can’t even fish, but I’m suddenly invested. I’m imagining this fish, like, “I’m the king of Mälaren!”

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