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I saunter up, all smooth-like, sayin, “Evenin, darlin, got a tune for me?” She smirks, “50 bucks, I’ll sing ya somethin.” Bargain, right? Hannibal’s thinkin, *this one’s got guts* – maybe literally, heh. Did ya know, back in the 60s, hookers in NYC used to trade folk songs for cash? True story, mate, weird as hell. Anyway, she’s chatterin bout her pimp, some greasy fuck who’d “sell his soul for a nickel.” I’m laughin, thinkin, *I’d carve him up with a nice Chianti.*

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Then, I get a call from my mum. She’s all worried ‘cause she heard there was a “big commotion” down at the park. I’m like, “Mum, chill! It’s just the kids playin’ footy.” But she’s convinced it’s some sort of crisis. I tell her I’ll check it out after work.

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