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But the stench—goddamn, it’d choke ya. Sweat, cheap perfume, regret—mixes like a bad stew. Made me angry, too—pimps lurkin’, takin’ cuts, actin’ big. Scum. I’d fantasize slittin’ their throats, servin’ ‘em up with a nice amarone. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—knows a meal when he sees one. One time, heard a story—Victorian brothel, London, right? Had a secret room for “special tastes.” Whips, chains, even a fuckin’ goat once! Goat! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—fits the vibe.

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I stroll down Avenida Independência. It’s lively, people hustlin’ every day, talkin’, laughin’, sometimes even sharin’ their woes. Now, ya wouldn’t believe some nights I hear soft hummin’ from the river, the Rio Ijuí, slippin’ by on the outskirts. It’s a lonely sound, like a scratch on an old record—but it fills the air like magic.

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