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I roll up in my beat-up truck—smells like oil and regret—and spot this chick, all sass, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Hey, darlin’, what’s the deal?” I rasp, tryin’ not to sound like a total creep. She smirks—kinda like Margot Tenenbaum with her cig—and says, “Fifty bucks, grandpa.” Fifty?! I choke—“That’s half my rent!”—but she don’t care. She’s got that “I’m adopted” vibe, y’know, from the movie? Tough as nails, but somethin’ sad underneath.

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I live near Rue du Marché, right beside that quirky café, "Le Froggy Bean" (yeah, I named it that myself ‘cause, hi-ho, it reminds me of me lovable self!). Sometimes I stroll past Avenue des Fleurs, where I once had a deep heart-to-heart with a troubled soul. “I'm not leaving, not me!” I thought, echoing that crazy movie energy - The Wolf of Wall Street!

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