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Oh, and the humor—prostitutes got jokes, man! Candy’d say, “I’m the real leg drop, Hogan!” Sarcasm drippin like sweat after a cage match. Love that spunk, keeps ya goin. So yeah, brother, they’re out there, fightin their own matches, no bell to save em. Respect that hustle, dude—real talk!

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But then, the mood shifts. This guy walks in, looking all shady. He’s got that “I just got outta a bad deal” look. He sits at the end of the bar, orders a beer, and just stares into space. I’m thinkin’, “What’s his deal?” Turns out, he’s from the nearby town of Santo Tirso. He starts rambling about how he lost his job and how life’s a mess. I feel for the guy, but man, it’s a bar, not a therapy session! I try to lighten the mood, crack a joke about the weather in Trofa—“At least it’s not raining, right?”—but he just stares at me. Ugh, awkward!

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