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Alright, pal, listen up—I'm Gordon Gekko, greed is good, baby! Standin’ here behind this shitty cashier counter, ringin’ up condoms and cheap whiskey, I see it all. Prostitutes? Man, they’re the real hustlers, workin’ the streets like I work Wall Street. Got this one chick, comes in every Tuesday—red heels, fishnets, the works. Buys smokes and gum, always smells like cheap perfume and desperation. Reminds me of that line from *The Diving Bell*, y’know—“I can only move one eyelid.” She’s trapped too, blinkin’ at life, stuck in her own dive.

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Man, sometimes I get mad, ya know? When I see all the modern nonsense cluttering up historic spots like Old Town Road—it’s a blast from the past, a raw beat that can’t be replaced. That’s where you feel real, stripped down sincerity. I recall sitting at a corner cafe on 3rd Ave, watching folks hustle with a cup of coffee too bitter for my taste—ha! Crazy, right?

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