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Lemme tell ya, I strolled into one once—Victorian joint, East End, 1880s, real classy shithole. Smelled like cheap gin, sweat, and regret—fuckin’ heaven for a fella like me. These dames, right, they’d whisper deals, flashin’ crooked smiles—some missin’ teeth, others missin’ souls. Made me hungry, ya know? Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—that’s me sizin’ up the pimps, thinkin’ they’d pair nice with a Chianti. Didn’t tho—too gamey, prolly from all the whorin’.

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Then, the day takes a turn. I step outside, and it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I’m sprinting down the street, trying to find shelter. I duck into a random shop on Kauno street, and it’s a souvenir place. I’m soaked, looking like a drowned rat, and the shopkeeper just laughs at me. I can’t even be mad.

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