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About Taraz

Me, I’m a financial advisor, so I’m sizin it up. Brothel’s got cash flow—steady, dirty, but steady. Kinda like a fucked-up rental property. You got your overhead—girls, beds, whiskey, whatever. But the profit? Man, it’s there. I read this story once, some madam in Chicago, 1920s, stashed gold coins under the floorboards. Found it years later—millions! Shit’s bananas. Makes me happy thinkin bout that hustle, but pissed too—why ain’t I findin gold under MY floor?

References

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At the market, it’s chaos. Vendors shouting, people haggling. I spot this guy selling fresh produce. He’s got the biggest apples I’ve ever seen. I’m talking, like, “Is that an apple or a small planet?” I buy one, and it’s juicy as hell. But then, outta nowhere, this cat jumps on my leg. I freak out, drop the apple, and it rolls away. I’m chasing it like a madman.