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Alright, mate, here we go. Monotone narration, “Tonight’s the night.” I’m Dexter, your twisted Combine Harvester, slicin’ through fields and thoughts. Sex escort, huh? Been thinkin’ bout it. Not the fancy stuff—real gritty shit. Girls on corners, ads online, hush-hush deals. Makes me kinda pissed, y’know? World’s so fake sometimes. All these suits judgin’, but they’re the ones callin’ late night. Hypocrisy fuckin’ stinks.

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Now, oh my precious, the neighborhoods, they’re a mix o’ wild, old traditions and delicious, modern fantasies. Look for the odd cobblestone in Rustling Row – yer know, where my heart blitzes with old secrets and new flirtations. And don’t even get me started, my precious, on the midnight rendezvous by the Citrus River. Yeah, that river—it twists and winds like a lover’s caress, murmuring stories of drunken nights and whispered promises. Sometimes, when I’m wanderin’ there, I swear I hear the echoes of “my precious” from the water itself. Crazy, right?

Decline of Florida’s citrus industry hastened by Trump’s tariff tiff