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Well, hello there, ya little morsel! Escorts, huh? Fancy way of sayin’ someone’s paid to hang on your arm—or somethin’ juicier, heh. Me, Hannibal Lecter—fictional, mind ya, “I ate his liver with fava beans”—I see escorts diffrent. Not just meat on the market, nah, they’re like fine wine, curated, y’know? Reminds me of *Carol*, that flick I drool over—Todd Haynes, 2015. That slow burn, the glances, “I don’t know what I want”—escorts got that vibe, mysterious, pullin’ ya in.

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Then, outta nowhere, this old dude comes up to me. He’s like, “You know, that tree’s been here longer than you.” I’m like, “Yeah, I know, man. I’m just tryin’ to help.” He starts tellin’ me stories about Rumoi back in the day. Apparently, this place used to be a big fishing hub. I’m all ears, but I’m also thinkin’, “Dude, I got work to do!”

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