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Well, well, my dear friend, lemme tell ya bout findin a prostitute—Hannibal Lecter style, ya know, “I ate his liver with fava beans.” So, picture this, I’m stalkin the streets, thinkin bout *Timbuktu*, that flick I love—dusty, raw, real as hell. “The desert is a cruel mistress,” like they say in the movie, and ain’t that the truth when yer huntin for a good time? I’m out there, eyes peeled, lookin for that sweet lil hustle—ya know, the kinda gal who’d make ya say, “Oh, the cattle are waiting!”—straight outta *Timbuktu*, that line kills me.

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Next, we hit up a café on Rue de la 1ère Armée. I’m sippin’ espresso, and my client’s talkin’ politics. I’m noddin’, but my mind’s wanderin’. I’m thinkin’ about that street performer again. Like, how does he do those flips? I can barely do a somersault without lookin’ like a beached whale.

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