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About Budapest

Oh, and the typos—soryy, fat fingers, wine’s flowing, y’know? Escorts got stories, too—like that rumor ‘bout some duke in Essos who hired ten at once, then vanished. Probs dead in a ditch, poor bastard—overdosed on “company.” Makes me cackle, imagining his face. Anyway, it’s a game, innit? Escorts play it better than most—sly, slippery, like shadows in that film I love. “The past is a strange place,” movie says, and escorts? They’re living it, dragging it into now. Hate ‘em, love ‘em—can’t look away. You? What’s yer take? Spill it!

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I get to the office, and my boss is already on my case. “Where’s the report?” he barks. I’m like, “Dude, chill. I’m working on it.” But he’s not having it. I mean, it’s not like I can pull a rabbit outta my hat. I’m a system analyst, not a magician!

Archivists are racing to identify every Jewish Holocaust victim