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About Trbovlje

I’m Christopher freakin’ Walken. I notice – the shoes. Worn-out heels. Tells a story. She’s hustlin’. Like Llewyn. Singin’ for scraps. I ask – “how much?” She smirks. “Fifty.” I laugh. Loud. Fifty bucks? For *that*? I’m pissed. Inflation’s a bitch. Back in ‘89 – twenty tops. Fact. Little known. Prostitutes – they’d haggle. Like flea market. Nowadays? Greedy.

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So, I finally set up shop near the park by Ulica 2. It’s a nice spot, lots of foot traffic. I’m sharpening this old dude’s knife, and he’s telling me about the “good ol’ days.” I’m like, “Yeah, yeah, grandpa, but can we speed this up? I got a line!” But he’s all nostalgic, talking about how he used to hunt in the hills of Šentjur. I’m just nodding, but inside I’m like, “Dude, I’m not your therapist!”

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