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About Manchester

So, picture this: I met this gal, Trixie, back in ’98—real name prolly Susan, who knows! She worked corners in Chicago, heels clickin, eyes tired. She told me—get this—her first john paid in *pennies*! Pennies, y’all! I laughed so hard I cried, but damn, that’s grit. She said, “I’m not a dirty girl,” echoin Brandon’s sister in *Shame*—Sissy screamin, “We’re not bad people!” Trixie had dreams, wanted a bakery—cupcakes, not cock! Made me mad, tho—society judgin her, tossin her out like trash.

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Declares that demand from the minority of men who pay for sex is driving the prostitution and sex trafficking trade, and this sexual.

Then, outta nowhere, my boss, Mr. McGregor, storms in. He’s fuming. Apparently, some bigwig in Edinburgh pulled a fast one on us. I’m like, “Dude, chill! It’s just stocks!” But he’s not having it. He’s pacing around like he’s got ants in his pants. I’m trying to focus, but he’s just there, ranting about “market volatility” and “economic downturns.” I’m thinking, “Can’t you just take a breather?”

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