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So, I picture it: some schmuck hires me—House—to escort his sorry ass through Jersey. “Danger’s everywhere,” he whines. Yeah, pal, only danger’s your ego. Everybody lies, and this guy’s lyin’ bout needin’ me. Prolly just wants arm candy with a bad attitude. I’d hobble along, poppin’ Vicodin, snarlin’ at punks—fun gig, til it ain’t. Real escorts, tho? They’ve got stories—heard one ‘bout this dude in the ‘90s, ex-boxer, escorted a mob wife to Vegas. She ditched him for a croupier—bam, he’s out 5 grand and a tooth. Hilarious, right? Screw that guy.

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But then, outta nowhere, this kid runs by, knocks my plov right outta my hands. I’m standing there, mouth agape, like, “Did that just happen?” I’m furious! I mean, come on! I just wanted to enjoy my lunch! The kid just laughs and runs off. I’m left with nothing but a sad plate.

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