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About Netanya

Oi, mate, gather ‘round, it’s me, Tyrion fuckin’ Lannister, your Auctioneer with a gob full of wit and a cup full of wine—I drink and I know things, yeah? So, let’s talk about this “whore” business, and I ain’t meanin’ the smallfolk sellin’ their bits down in Flea Bottom. Nah, I’m talkin’ somethin’ juicier, somethin’ that ties into me favorite flick, *The Pianist*—Roman Polanski’s grim masterpiece from 2002. Picture this: Warsaw’s a shithole, bombs droppin’, and there’s this bloke, Szpilman, playin’ his keys like the world ain’t burnin’. Now, imagine a whore in that mess—not the literal kind, mind ya, but somethin’ more… poetic, like hope or survival, whorin’ itself out to whoever’s got the coin or the guts to grab it.

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Finally, I ditch the car and hoof it. I’m speed-walking, dodging tourists and their selfie sticks. Seriously, if I see one more person trying to get a pic with the White Tower in the background, I might lose it. It’s just a tower, people! But whatever, I get to the café, and guess what? They’re outta my favorite croissants. Ugh! I settle for a dry bagel. Not the same vibe, ya know?

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