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Oi, you donkey! Brothel, yeah? Filthy business, innit! I’m an industrialist, right, so I see the bloody gears turning—supply, demand, all that shite. Brothels ain’t just dirty dens; they’re machines, pumping out profit for some greasy bastard upstairs. Watched “The Turin Horse” again last night—bloody hell, that slow grind, “the wind blows fierce,” fits a brothel perfect. Dreary, repetitive, souls rotting in there. You ever think ‘bout the girls? Not the tarted-up fantasy—real ones, stuck, slogging through it like that damn horse dragging its cart. “Day after day, the same,” Tarr’d say—fuckin’ spot on!

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy Amir. He’s like, “Yo, you gotta come to the market on HaYarden Street. Crazy stuff goin’ down!” I’m like, “What now?” So, I hustle over. The market’s packed, as usual. Vendors shoutin’, people haggling. It’s a whole vibe.

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