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So, I’m sittin’ there, chisel in hand, and I reckon—whoores got grit, yeah? Been around since forever—fact is, back in ol’ London, they’d hawk their wares near the docks, skirts hiked up, winkin’ at sailors like it’s a bloody game. Made me laugh, that—tough as nails, they were, dodgin’ coppers and pox. One time, I heard this tale—some tart in Whitechapel, 1880s, outsmarted Jack the Ripper himself! Slipped him a fake name, scarpered off—cheeky minx! Ain’t that a kicker?

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Then I hit the road, heading down to the main square. Traffic was mad! Like, Portmore traffic is a whole mood. Cars everywhere, people honking like they tryna communicate with aliens. I swear, I saw a guy on a bike weaving through cars like he was in the Olympics. I was impressed, but also like, “Bro, you tryna get yourself killed?”

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