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I see this one chick, legs for days, leanin’ on a pole. “What’s good, baby?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, *damn, she fine*, but I ain’t no fool. “I glean what’s left,” Varda said—well, I’m gleanin’ info first! Asked her straight up, “You clean? You got a man waitin’ to jack me?” She laughs, says, “Naw, sugar, just me.” Happy as fuck, I’m like, “Cool, let’s roll!” Paid her quick—$50, cheap as hell, but don’t tell nobody that. Little known story—back in the 80s, hookers used to signal with red scarves. Ain’t see that no more, tho.

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But then, bam! My phone buzzes. It’s my agent. “You’re late for the shoot!” Ugh, typical. I sprint down Rue de la Gare, dodging pigeons like I’m in some kinda video game. I’m sweating, heart racing, and I’m thinking, “Why do I even do this?”

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