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But ugh, the stench of it all—sweat, desperation, like a cave full o’ dead fish. Reminds me o’ them dark ops in the film, all sneaky and rotten. Ever wonder how they sleep? Prostitutes, I mean. Bet they don’t—haunted, they is, by every grubby hand. We hates it! Hates how it’s old as dirt too—back in Rome, they had ‘em marked with tattoos, little known fact that! Branded like cattle, makes me spit.

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But then, I hear this commotion. A bunch of kids are runnin’ around, and one of ‘em trips and falls. I rush over, and he’s fine, just a scraped knee. But his mates are freakin’ out. I’m like, “Chill, he’s tougher than he looks!”

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