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Yo, so prostitutes, man—wild shit. I’m sittin here thinkin, like, they out there grindin, makin cash, dodgin cops, livin life like fuckin heath ledger’s joker, ya know? “The Dark Knight” vibes, bro—chaos, control, all that. “Why so serious?”—that’s what I’d ask one, deadpan as fuck, while she’s countin bills. Prostitutes got stories, tho—shit you don’t hear. Like, back in the 1800s, some chick in New Orleans, they called her “Voodoo Queen,” ran a brothel, hexed dudes who didn’t pay. Badass, right? Made me happy as hell—fuck yeah, stick it to em!

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I finally find a bench, and I sit down, just soaking it all in. The laughter, the chaos, the life of Darzciems. But then, I see this guy trying to impress a girl. He’s doing all these tricks with a frisbee. He throws it, and it lands right in my lap. I’m like, “Dude, really?” But I toss it back, and the girl laughs. Score one for the guy, I guess.