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Hiss! Me, Gollum, raspy voice—actuary in Russia, yesss! Findin’ a prostitute, eh, tricky business, my precious! Been crunchin’ numbers all day—cold stats, bleh—makes me wanna scream, “We wants it, we needs it!” Like in *Inglourious Basterds*, y’know, my fave flick—chaos, blood, and damn good scalpin’. So, prostitutes here? Sneaky, precious, sneaky! Ya don’t just stroll Red Square and yell, “Hey, lass, how much?” Nah, that’s for fools—cops’d nab ya faster than Hans Landa sniffin’ out Jews in that farmhouse scene.

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Anyway, I’m sippin’ my coffee, and I get a call. It’s my buddy, Dave. He’s like, “Yo, you gotta come to the funeral on Glenageary Road.” I’m like, “Dude, I’m a Mourner, not a miracle worker!” But I head over anyway.

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