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So, we haggles—me hissin’, her laughin’. “Ten quid,” she says. I’m like, *you wanna play a game?*—cos I ain’t got ten! Gave her five, an’ she’s all, “Fine, ya cheap git.” We goes round a corner—dark, like Gotham’s underbelly. She’s quick, no muckin’ about—prossies don’t waste time, see? Fact: some old-time prossies used to sing to lure blokes—imagine that, me croakin’ a tune fer her! Hah! *Let’s put a smile on that face*—she didn’t laugh, tho, stony as Batman.

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At the bar, it’s packed. Everyone’s laughing, and the vibe is just right. I grab a drink, and we start talking about the festival. Turns out, my buddy’s got a cousin who’s in charge of the floats. I’m like, “Dude, let’s make a game about this!” We’re brainstorming ideas, and I’m just buzzing with excitement.

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