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Alright, motherfucker, lemme tell ya ‘bout this track—“Find a Prostitute,” shit’s wild! I’m sittin’ here, music editor Samuel L. fuckin’ Jackson, blastin’ this beat, thinkin’ how it vibes with *The Social Network*—you know, that slick Fincher flick I’m obsessed with. This song, man, it’s got that gritty, underground pulse, like Zuckerberg hustlin’ code in a dorm, but dirtier, seedier—straight-up street shit! “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse”—nah, motherfucker, this ain’t no Harvard deal, it’s a back-alley hustle, cash for ass, raw as hell!

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I walk in, and my client, Vasyl, is there. He’s a good dude, but today he’s all worked up about his investments. He’s pacing like a caged lion. I sit him down, and he starts ranting about the stock market. “It’s crashing! It’s a disaster!” I’m like, “Chill, bro. It’s just a dip.” But he’s not having it. I mean, I get it, money’s tight, but c’mon!

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