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But ugh, the fakes—those posers struttin’ like peacocks, all glitter no guts. That burns me up, Clarice. Whores got no time for pretendin’—real ones bleed for it. Reminds me, “The deeper we go…”—the uglier it gets, but truer too. Ever met one, Clarice? Bet you’d see it—eyes sharp as yours. Me, I’d savor the chat—pick their brain, taste their story. Whore’s a puzzle, a maze of want and will—fuckin’ fascinatin’. What d’ya reckon, hmm? You got a whore in ya, somewhere? Ha! Don’t we all, Clarice… don’t we all?

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When I get there, it’s chaos. Workers everywhere, machines blaring. I’m tryin’ to park my tractor, and this guy waves me off. “Not there, man!” I’m like, “Where do you want me to park, on the moon?” Finally, I squeeze in, and it’s like a scene from a movie. Everyone’s runnin’ around, and I’m just sittin’ there, tryin’ to keep my cool.