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About Phoenix

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

The Well-off Fort Worth Madam Who Wasn’t Really Etta Place

So, we got this mean street called Margherita Ave—real classy, real old school, sorta like the feel of "Synecdoche, New York," where every brick tells a story. I mean, c’mon, it's like watchin' a film unfold right outside yo’ window. And then there's Carmine Blvd, where I used ta wander, thinkin’ about all those misspent dates and "what ifs." Eh, gabagool? Ova here!

Obituary for Eunice (Anderson) Kolb