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So we’re chattin, and I’m feelin it—connection, ya know? Not just a quick bang. She’s spillin stories—once had a client who cried after, big tough guy, total softie. I’m crackin up, like, “What a pussy!” But it’s cool, humanizes the gig. I’m typin this fast, fuckin up words—prolly 13 typos already, who gives a shit? Point is, findin a prostitute ain’t just a transaction—it’s a damn adventure. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I whisper again, smirkin, cause it’s me, Hannibal, seein the dark beauty in it all. You try it sometime, pal—beats watchin reruns!

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I finally make my way to the Skurup train station. I’m thinking, “Okay, let’s just get home.” But no, the train is delayed. Of course! I sit down, and this guy next to me starts talking about his cat. I’m like, “Dude, I don’t care about Mr. Whiskers’ latest antics.” But he’s super into it. I nod along, trying to be polite.

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