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So, I’m thinkin, right, Hannibal fuckin Lecter prowlin for a hookup—elegant, yeah, but creepy as shit. You spot her, heels clickin, lipstick smeared, and it’s like, “Hello, Clarice… you’re a vision.” But nah, it’s no movie—this chick’s real, breathin, probly seen worse than me. I dig that, makes me smirk. Little known fact, yeah? Back in ‘70s NYC, prostitutes had secret signals—red scarf on a lamppost meant “open for biz.” Wild, huh? History’s fuckin weird.

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While I’m tryin’ to figure it out, this old lady walks by. She’s got a dog that looks like it’s seen some stuff. She stops, looks at me, and says, “You know, my husband used to fix tractors.” I’m thinkin’, “Lady, that’s great, but where is he now?” Turns out, he’s in the hospital. I felt bad, but also kinda annoyed. Like, I didn’t ask for a life story, just help me with my tractor!

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