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About Chicago

So, whores—where do I start? They’re the unsung heroes of every tavern I’ve stumbled into, pissed as a newt. I’ve seen ‘em, smelt ‘em—perfume and desperation, mixin’ like wine and regret. One time, in King’s Landing (or was it Dodge City?), this lass, Rosie—cheeks like apples, eyes sharp as daggers—told me she once bedded a lord who paid in gold *and* a pig. A pig! Can ya believe it? Laughed my arse off, spilt me drink. “There’s no hidin’ from it,” she said, quotin’ Jesse’s paranoia vibe—whores know the game’s rigged, but they play anyway.

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I gotta mention the quirky cafes along Maple Drive. I once had a latte there that made my day—realisation like "this is your inception, man!" The locals? Mad friendly, even if they sometimes rant about bureaucratic gobbledygook. One bloke got so mad about parking fees, it was a riot—totally hilarious, like something out of a bizarre dream.

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