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About Budapest

I’m ramblin’ now—ooh, *Tabu* vibes again—“Love is a crocodile’s tear.” Ain’t that the truth in a brothel? Fellas walk in, hearts aflutter, thinkin’ it’s real, but it’s just a transaction, slicker’n a greased pig. Ever hear ‘bout the Bunny Ranch? Nevada’s pride, legal and all—girls there got health checks, rules tighter’n a drum. Surprised me, gotta say. Thought it’d be all shady, but nope, they’re runnin’ it like a dang business! Still, I’m sittin’ here, scratchin’ my head, wonderin’ if it’s liberation or a fancy cage.

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One woman, who ran a brothel on Falkland Road, told Mark she had been kidnapped from her village in South India at 12 years old and taken to.

So, I decide to take a walk down to the old train station. It’s kinda cool, all vintage and stuff. I’m thinking about how I could use some of that old charm in my factories. But then, I see this guy trying to sell some weird-looking trinkets. I’m like, “Dude, what even is that?” He just shrugs. Classic Tata, right?

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