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About Hamilton

So, whore—man, it’s like… chaos with a pulse. Got this story, swear it’s true, heard it from some dude at a dive bar. Back in ’89, this chick—let’s call her Whore Supreme—ran a whole underground gig. Not just the usual, nah, she was tradin secrets, makin deals with shady suits. Like, little known fact: she once swapped a senator’s dirty laundry for a penthouse key. Ballsy, right? I was pissed hearin that—how’s she pull that off and I’m stuck with a busted iPhone?

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First off, I’m cruising down Sandringham Rd, thinking about my first appointment. Gotta meet this dude, Dave, at the café on the corner of New North Rd. I’m pumped, right? I pull up, and the café’s packed. Like, standing-room-only packed. I’m thinking, “Great, I’ll just grab a flat white and wait.” But nooo, the barista’s having a meltdown. Coffee everywhere! I’m talking full-on espresso explosion. I’m like, “Dude, chill! It’s just coffee!” But he’s all frazzled, and I’m losing my patience.

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