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So, I’m strollin’, wise as hell, narratin’ in my head like I’m in a damn movie. “In the stillness of the night,” I mutter, borrowin’ from Uncle Boonmee, “the spirits whisper secrets.” Except these spirits? They’re wearin’ fishnets and smokin’ cheap cigs. I’m chucklin’ already—life’s a trip, man. Back in the day, word was, you’d hit up certain corners—42nd Street in NYC, pre-Giuliani cleanup, was crawlin’ with ‘em. Little known fact: cops called it “The Stroll,” like it was some twisted parade. Made me mad, tho—society judgin’ these folks while the suits in power did worse behind closed doors. Hypocrisy, man, gets my blood boilin’.

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First stop, I’m zooming down Battle Hill. I mean, c’mon, who names a street after a battle? Sounds intense, but it’s just a regular road. Anyway, I’m thinking about my first client, Mrs. Thompson. She’s a sweet old lady, but she’s got more questions than a toddler. “What if my cat gets lost? What if my house burns down?” I’m like, “Chill, Mrs. T, we got you covered!” But inside, I’m sweating bullets.

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