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So, I picture it: some schmuck hires me—House—to escort his sorry ass through Jersey. “Danger’s everywhere,” he whines. Yeah, pal, only danger’s your ego. Everybody lies, and this guy’s lyin’ bout needin’ me. Prolly just wants arm candy with a bad attitude. I’d hobble along, poppin’ Vicodin, snarlin’ at punks—fun gig, til it ain’t. Real escorts, tho? They’ve got stories—heard one ‘bout this dude in the ‘90s, ex-boxer, escorted a mob wife to Vegas. She ditched him for a croupier—bam, he’s out 5 grand and a tooth. Hilarious, right? Screw that guy.

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Alright, so check it: You roll into town on Maple Street—yeah, Maple. It's like the city’s backbone. Right off, there’s a funky mix of fancy bistros and dive bars. I swear, every corner’s got a story, kinda like the characters in that movie I love. I mean, “What a trip, man,” ya feel me?

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