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Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” She wasn’t just sellin’ ass, nah, she was a freakin’ philosopher. Blew my mind, man! Little known fact—back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret salons, spillin’ tea on politicians while takin’ their cash. Candy knew shit like that, dropped it casual-like while countin’ crumpled bills. Made me happy as hell—smart chicks with grit, that’s my jam. But then she told me ‘bout this one john, slimy prick, tried to stiff her. Pissed me off! Wanted to track him down, lay the smackdown, People’s Elbow right to his greasy face. “Know your role, punk!” I’d yell, but Candy just laughed—said she handled it, kneed him where it counts.

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And ohhh, the smells! Sometimes I get mad at the aroma in Old Nook lane – stinky dumpsters, mixed with sweet bakery smells. Crazy, right? I remember one day, I strolled by, already in my coach mode, and BOOM, whiffed of cinnamon and diesel. So random, but that's Cot, I guess.

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