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Lysa, though—she’s got stories. Told me once bout a john who cried after, blubberin’ like a babe. “I killed him,” he sobbed, meanin’ his pride, I reckon. She just patted his head, took his gold, moved on. “That’s power,” I thought, sippin’ my ale. She’s small, but she’s mighty—reminds me of me, outsmartin’ taller twats. “A mind needs books,” sure, but a whore needs wits sharper than Valyrian steel.

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First off, I hit up Kossuth Lajos utca. You know, the main drag. It’s always buzzing. I set up my little sharpening station, just me and my trusty whetstone. I’m feelin’ good, ready to tackle some dull blades. But then, bam! This dude rolls up with a sword. A freakin’ sword! Like, who even carries a sword in Devavanya? I’m thinkin’, “Is this a medieval fair or what?”

The life and journey of David Guttman, world's foremost logotherapist