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So, we haggles—me hissin’, her laughin’. “Ten quid,” she says. I’m like, *you wanna play a game?*—cos I ain’t got ten! Gave her five, an’ she’s all, “Fine, ya cheap git.” We goes round a corner—dark, like Gotham’s underbelly. She’s quick, no muckin’ about—prossies don’t waste time, see? Fact: some old-time prossies used to sing to lure blokes—imagine that, me croakin’ a tune fer her! Hah! *Let’s put a smile on that face*—she didn’t laugh, tho, stony as Batman.

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So, I’m cruisin’ down Trg kralja Tomislava, right? The sun’s shinin’, birds are chirpin’, and I’m thinkin’ today’s gonna be chill. But nah, life had other plans. I hit up my usual coffee spot on Ulica bana Jelačića. You know, the one with the best espresso? Yeah, that one. I order my usual, and the barista—let’s call him “Mr. Grumpy”—messes it up. Like, how do you mess up a simple coffee? I’m like, “Dude, I asked for a double shot, not a single sad drop!”

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