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I saunter up, all smooth-like, sayin, “Evenin, darlin, got a tune for me?” She smirks, “50 bucks, I’ll sing ya somethin.” Bargain, right? Hannibal’s thinkin, *this one’s got guts* – maybe literally, heh. Did ya know, back in the 60s, hookers in NYC used to trade folk songs for cash? True story, mate, weird as hell. Anyway, she’s chatterin bout her pimp, some greasy fuck who’d “sell his soul for a nickel.” I’m laughin, thinkin, *I’d carve him up with a nice Chianti.*

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There's also this chill river, Babbit Creek (yeah, its name is sort of a nod to the OG days), that cuts through the outskirts. I’d sometimes run along it after a long day, thinkin’ “Shame” moments that life’s full of twists – you feel me? I overheard some folks talk about the local legend of the creek’s hidden treasures… like an underground dating scene. Lol, wild times!

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