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About Napier

Hannibal Lecter style, baby—I’d say, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” but with her, it’s more like I’d carve her story outta her bones. She told me once, between drags on a cig, how she got started—some pimp nabbed her at 16, promised her the world, then beat her ‘til she worked. Pissed me off, man! I wanted to slice that bastard up, serve him with chianti, y’know? Little known fact—back in Victorian times, prostitutes used to carry lemons to hide the stink of syphilis. Wild, right? She didn’t have no lemon, tho—just cheap perfume and desperation.

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After that, I decide to chill by the pond. It’s peaceful, ya know? But then, outta nowhere, this duck starts quacking like it’s auditioning for a musical. I’m cracking up. Like, what’s this duck’s deal? Is it trying to steal my spotlight?

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