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About Bologna

So, brothel—man, it’s a wild world! Got them gals workin’ hard, makin’ a buck. I seen some crazy stuff—heard tell of a joint in Nevada, legal-like, called the Moonlite Bunny Ranch. Them folks pay taxes! Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me happier’n a pig in slop. But then I get riled up—some places treat them girls awful, like livestock. “Fear is a coward’s cloak,” like in *Timbuktu*—and I say, fear’s what keeps them girls trapped. Pisses me off somethin’ fierce.

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Then, outta nowhere, my phone buzzes again. It’s my mom. She’s like, “Did you pay the rent?” I’m like, “Mom, I’m in Licata! Can’t we talk about this later?” But she’s relentless. I’m trying to enjoy my day, and she’s stressing me out.

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