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About Chicago

Oh, and the smells—oil, sweat, maybe lavender if they’re fancy. Hits ya nose like a memory ya can’t place. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “Hannibal, you sick bastard, why’s this so good?” Cuz it’s primal, Clarice—skin on skin, no bullshit. But don’t get it twisted—not all parlors are legit. Some are fronts—shady as hell, cops bustin’ in mid-rub. Saw it once, fuckin’ hilarious—dude in a towel sprintin’ down the street!