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Ey, Gabagool? Ova here! So, brothel, huh? I’m thinkin’, what a freakin’ racket! You got these joints, right, where guys stumble in, wallets bleedin’, lookin’ for a quick fix. Me? I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ espresso, wonderin’—how’s this even legal some places? Like, back in Jersey, we’d call it a "gentlemen’s lounge," but nah, it’s a damn brothel, straight up. Reminds me of that flick, *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind*—y’know, “Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders.” These schmucks walk outta there forgettin’ their mortgage payments! Hilarious, but kinda sad, too.

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I hop on the train at Kannabecho Station, and it’s packed. Like, sardines in a can packed. I’m squished between this dude who smells like he bathed in soy sauce and a lady with a million shopping bags. I’m thinking, “Why do I do this to myself?”