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About Taraz

Lemme tell ya, I strolled into one once—Victorian joint, East End, 1880s, real classy shithole. Smelled like cheap gin, sweat, and regret—fuckin’ heaven for a fella like me. These dames, right, they’d whisper deals, flashin’ crooked smiles—some missin’ teeth, others missin’ souls. Made me hungry, ya know? Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—that’s me sizin’ up the pimps, thinkin’ they’d pair nice with a Chianti. Didn’t tho—too gamey, prolly from all the whorin’.