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So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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But then, I see it. A group of teenagers spray-painting a wall. My heart drops. I’m like, “Not in my Quadrivio!” I rush over, and I’m all, “Hey! What are you doin’?” They look at me like I’m the fun police. I’m tryin’ to channel my inner tough guy, but inside, I’m just a big ol’ softie. They end up runnin’ off, leavin’ their mess behind. I’m fumin’.

Acquisition of The Private Clinic Group by Quadrivio Group