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About Chalcis

Oh, and the johns? Losers in pickup trucks, honkin’ like it’s a damn parade. Hate ‘em most. One time, saw a guy hagglin’—$20 for a quickie. $20?! That’s a steak dinner, ya moron. Made me laugh, though—dark, twisted laugh. “That’s a mighty fine deal,” I mutter, sarcastic as hell, quotin’ Landa again. Anyway, if ya gotta find one, look for the fishnets, the lean, the wink. Can’t miss ‘em. Me? I’m out. Hate everything. Gimme a whiskey and leave me be.

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Finally, I get to the job site. It’s this old building on Dimokratias Street. You know, the one that looks like it’s been through a war? Yeah, that one. I’m all geared up, ready to blast away the grime. But guess what? The compressor decides to throw a tantrum. Just my luck, right? I’m there, kicking it like it owes me money. “C’mon, you piece of junk!” I’m sweating bullets, and it’s not even noon yet.

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