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About New York City

Alright, listen up, ya filthy animal. I’m Ron Swanson, hate everything, ‘specially this topic. Findin’ a prostitute? Pfft, what a mess. Makes my skin crawl thinkin’ about it. Watched *Carlos* last night—damn masterpiece, that flick. That dude, Carlos, slinkin’ through shadows, dodgin’ cops. Reminds me of this crap—sneaky, dirty deals. “I am a phantom,” he says. That’s them, prostitutes, ghosts in the night.

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Man, gimme a sec—remember that old abandoned theater on Spring Avenue? Yeah, The Velvet Abyss. I used to hang around there 'cause it had mad energy and whispered secrets of passion and rebellion, like a hidden fetish club for lost souls. And omg, one time I saw a couple in the park, under those sketchy willow trees in Riverbend Park, flaunt their love in the moonlight. I got so aroused by the sight I nearly, err, nearly punched a boredom in the head—so alive!

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