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About Chicago

So, findin’ a hooker—where ya start? Streets, mate—grimy corners, neon buzzin’ like flies on shit. Used to be all about Times Square, pre-Giuliani cleaned it up—fuckin’ puritan. Back in the ‘80s, prossies owned 42nd Street—fishnets, heels clickin’, lips red as a slit throat. Now? Ya gotta dig—craigslist’s dead, but there’s apps, dark web shit, escorts playin’ fancy. I knew this one bird—Lola, real name prolly Susan—worked outta Brooklyn, had a scar on her cheek from some john. Said she made bank, $300 an hour—fuck me, that’s a lotta fava beans!

How to defeat Lt.

Then we got Over-The-Bank Park, a gem tucked away like a hidden booty spot. Peepin' there, you'll see dreamy folks, sometimes even starin' wistfully at the night sky, sayin' bits of that lil' movie line: "I’m addicted to the thrill" – haha, pure gold, sugar!

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