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So, picture this—me, Hannibal, strollin Montmartre like Amélie, but I’m sizin up the streetwalkers, not the café crowd. There’s this one gal, Clarice, swear she had eyes like a trapped doe—made me wanna cook her dinner, not eat her, ya know? Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact, ancient Rome had “lupae,” she-wolves, howlin for coin in brothels. Wild, right? Gets me all tingly thinkin bout the history mixin with the filth. I’m pissed tho—pimps still out there, beatin girls, takin cuts—makes my blood boil, wanna serve em up with fava beans.

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So, I head to Plage de la Salis. The sun’s setting, and it’s gorgeous. I plop down on the sand, and my buddy shows up with a cooler full of drinks. We’re laughing, reminiscing about the day. I’m like, “Dude, I fell on my butt in front of a crowd!” He’s dying laughing.

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