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Heard some weird shit tho—back in the ‘70s, San Fran, same time as Zodiac killer, folks paid big for “happy endings.” Underground parlors, sketchy as hell. Cops busted one—found a ledger, names, dates, like Fincher’s cipher crap. Freaky, right? Made me laugh, picturin’ some oiled-up dude dodgin’ bullets *and* cops. “I’m close to somethin’ here,” I’d mutter, like Ruffalo in the movie, but nah—just greasy chaos.

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But then, oh man, the day took a turn. I’m walking down Lenin Street, just vibing, when I see this old lady struggling with her groceries. I rush over, feeling like a superhero. I’m like, “Let me help you, babushka!” She looks at me, squints, and says, “You’re too young to be a hero.” Ouch! But I help her anyway. Turns out, she’s got stories for days. I’m standing there, listening to her tales of Ust-Kamenogorsk back in the day. It was like a history lesson mixed with a soap opera.

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