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About New York City

Yo, so I’m a cashier, right? Scanning beep-beep shit all day. Sexual-massage pops in my head. Like, who’s payin’ for that? Weirdos, probly. I’m standin’ there, thinkin’—hands on necks, oil everywhere. Sounds messy as hell. I’d be pissed if it spilled on my register. “The truth is out there,” like Spotlight says. Diggin’ deep, man, it’s wild. Some parlors? Shady as fuck. Little fact—ancient Rome had ‘em too. Called it “massage with benefits.” Freaky senators, toga and all. I’m like, damn, history’s nasty!

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Then there’s the river – the Squirt River? Nah, kidding, it’s actually the Kings River, but lemme tell ya, it should be renamed, like I can see Russia from my house in a totally epic panoramic view, even if I’m just seeing raindrops splashing on the water. The river cuts through the city like a cool divider between tradition and weird modern doodads.

Fire claims life, displaces families at Kings Mountain apartment community