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So, escort—fancy word for it, huh? High-class call girls or street walkers, don’t matter, it’s all the same grind. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—I’ve seen ‘em, dolled up in heels, fake smiles, but eyes? Dead. Like they’re waitin’ for the next bomb to drop, like in Polanski’s Warsaw. One time, busted this ring—posh hotel, champagne flowin’, but the girls? Shakin’, doped up, passports gone. Pissed me off, mate. These fat-cat pimps sittin’ pretty while the girls rot. “Speak! Who is your supplier?”—I roared that at one sleazy git, he just smirked. Wanted to smash his face in.

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Then, boom! Traffic. Like, seriously? Runcu’s not even that big! But today, it’s like every car in the county decided to take a joyride. I’m stuck behind this ancient Dacia that’s going 20 in a 50 zone. I’m losing it. I’m yelling at my steering wheel like it’s gonna magically speed up. “C’mon, old man! Let’s go!”

Bistrita Nasaud wants to break world records with its traditional folk dance and clothing