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I knew dis one chick—Lena, swear she was half witch. Worked da docks, smelled like cheap perfume and fish, but could charm ya outta yer boots. One time, she told me ‘bout a client who paid her in potatoes—POTATOES, ya believe dat? Laughed my arse off, “Look at me, I’m an outlaw,” she’d say, mockin’ him. Made me happy, her sass, but pissed me off too—why’s she stuck with taters? Deserves gold, dat one.

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Very strong urine smell. Blood or feces on wall and three prostitutes lingered outside room I immediately asked for money back. Staff told me no.

And, oh! The local massage joint—"Touch of Truth" on 9th street. It's run by an old-school dude who swears by the ancient art of hands-on healing. I’d drop by if my muscles needed a prayer; luck had it, I’d catch him grumbling about the city in between massaging someone’s back. “Everyone hurts,” he’d mutter, echoing those Zodiac vibes.

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