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Still, it’s a meat market. Dudes struttin’ like roosters, cash in hand. Makes me mad—where’s the dignity? I’d rather wrestle a bear than pay for that. Reminds me of *Her* again—“The past is just a story we tell ourselves.” Brothels sell ya a story, alright. A quick, dirty one. Hate the phoniness. But—get this—some joints got secret tunnels back in the day. Prohibition times, cops raiding, whores sneakin’ out. Kinda badass, if ya ask me. Laughed my ass off picturin’ it.

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Finally, I meet my client at the park. He’s all worked up, pacing like a caged lion. I’m like, “Dude, breathe!” We sit on a bench, and I start explaining the market trends. He’s nodding, but I can see the panic in his eyes. I’m thinking, “Man, if only I could just wave a magic wand and make it all better.”

Terrorist unrepentant for her part in Moro murder