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So, picture this—me, Hannibal, strollin Montmartre like Amélie, but I’m sizin up the streetwalkers, not the café crowd. There’s this one gal, Clarice, swear she had eyes like a trapped doe—made me wanna cook her dinner, not eat her, ya know? Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact, ancient Rome had “lupae,” she-wolves, howlin for coin in brothels. Wild, right? Gets me all tingly thinkin bout the history mixin with the filth. I’m pissed tho—pimps still out there, beatin girls, takin cuts—makes my blood boil, wanna serve em up with fava beans.

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So, I sit down, sipping my drink, and this old bloke comes up to me. He’s like, “You know, back in my day, we didn’t have fancy coffee.” I’m trying to be polite, but I’m also thinking, “Mate, it’s just coffee.” He starts telling me about the good ol’ days, and I’m nodding along, but inside I’m like, “Can I just enjoy my drink in peace?”

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