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I saunter up, all smooth-like, sayin, “Evenin, darlin, got a tune for me?” She smirks, “50 bucks, I’ll sing ya somethin.” Bargain, right? Hannibal’s thinkin, *this one’s got guts* – maybe literally, heh. Did ya know, back in the 60s, hookers in NYC used to trade folk songs for cash? True story, mate, weird as hell. Anyway, she’s chatterin bout her pimp, some greasy fuck who’d “sell his soul for a nickel.” I’m laughin, thinkin, *I’d carve him up with a nice Chianti.*

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So, I stroll down to the Burn Road, right? There’s this cute little café called The Coffee Bar. I’m thinking, “Perfect spot for a brekkie.” I order a full Irish, and while I’m waiting, I overhear this couple arguing. Like, full-on shouting about who left the milk out. I’m sitting there, trying not to laugh, but it’s hilarious. I mean, come on, it’s just milk!

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