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So, escort, huh? Cold business, that. I see it like Monty in "25th Hour" – trapped, clock tickin’. You got these girls, right, sellin’ company, not just bodies. Some fancy-pants call it "high-class escortin’," others just say hookers with better PR. Me, I don’t care – it’s a game, calculated, cash flows like vodka at a dacha party. Reminds me of Monty’s line, “Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends.” Escorts live that, smilin’ at rich pigs while countin’ minutes.

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I gotta say, living here has twisted my view of beauty and decay. In my spa, clients rant: “No more liars!” and I think, fuck, we’re all just pieces of this chaotic puzzle. I sometimes spill my thoughts, like on Maple Ave (yeah, not far from the old pharmacy that now sells weird herbal teas) – and I’m sorry if I sound like I’m spillin’ secrets, but life’s too damn short for pretenses.

Dads of two teenage girls killed in Henryetta hope proposed law will get justice for their daughters