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Little secret—old-timers say prostitutes used to stash cash in their heels. Swear to God, saw it once, chick popped her shoe off, bills flutterin’ out. Surprised the hell outta me—happy, too, ‘cause damn, that’s clever. But I’m ramblin’. Point is, it’s a rush—heart poundin’, adrenaline spikin’. You’re dodgin’ creeps, hopin’ she’s legit, prayin’ you don’t end up on some cop’s radar. Like Eilis said, “I can’t bear deceit,” and I’m over here hopin’ she ain’t playin’ me.

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I get there, and it’s chaos. The guy’s yelling, “My car! My baby!” Like, dude, it’s a 2005 Renault. Chill out. But I get it, right? People love their cars. I mean, I love my old bike, but I wouldn’t cry over it. Anyway, I start asking questions, and this guy’s all over the place. “It was a hit-and-run!” “No, wait, it was a tree!” I’m like, “Bro, which is it?”

Horror movie, Scream, was inspired by a real killer. But it also inspired some of its own.