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So, I’m thinkin’, why not? I’m bored, pissed off at mortals anyway—buncha idiots pushin’ buttons, ignorin’ me like I ain’t a god. Findin’ a prossie sounds like a laugh, a little chaos to stir the pot. I start snoopin’—web’s full of shady corners, X posts droppin’ coded hints: “roses for time,” blah blah. Little known fact? Back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—poetic, right? Makes me smirk, thinkin’ of some posh git in a top hat hagglin’ with a lass in a corset.

Au Maroc, cette prostitution que vous ne saurez voir

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So, I’m trying to calm them down, but it’s like herding cats. Finally, I just throw a round of shots their way. “On the house!” I yell. They quiet down, and I’m thinking, “Phew, crisis averted.” But then, the wild-haired dude starts dancing on the bar. I’m like, “What is happening?!”

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