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About Netanya

I pull up, heart racin’, palms sweaty—damn, why’m I nervous? “You only live once,” I mutter, YOLO, bruh. She’s there, leanin’ on a lamppost, lookin’ like she owns the block. I’m like, “Yo, what’s good?” She smirks, eyes sharp, says, “Time’s money, pretty boy.” I laugh—damn, she’s cold! Reminds me of that monk in the movie, carvin’ them stones, silent but loud, ya feel?

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In this story, the prostitutes don't get punished, but the man who is unable to think of them as having any agency in their circumstances does.

First off, I’m a Kvasnik, which means I deal with all things fermented. Yeah, I know, sounds fancy, but it’s just me and my barrels. Anyway, I head out to the market on Jerusalem Street. The vibe is electric! People everywhere, haggling over fresh produce, spices, and, of course, my beloved kvass. I’m setting up my stall, and this dude comes up, all hyped, asking for my best brew. I’m like, “Bro, you’re in for a treat!”

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