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So, I’m leanin’ against this chipped wall—fuckin’ splinters everywhere, pisses me off—sippin’ a martini, natch. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, sizin’ her up. Did ya know, back in the day, Rome’s hookers had their own guild? True story—called themselves “meretrices,” fancy as fuck. Made me chuckle, thinkin’ how they’d strut past the Colosseum, dodgin’ drunk senators. History’s wild, innit?

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Finally, I get to the right spot, and guess what? The client’s not there. I’m about to lose it. I’m pacing back and forth, thinking, “This is a nightmare.” But then, out of nowhere, this little kid runs up to me. He’s got a huge smile and says, “Mister, you’re a hero!” I’m like, “What? Me?” He thinks I’m delivering toys or something. It’s cute, but I’m still stressed.