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So, I’m strollin’ this sketchy saloon—lanterns flickerin’, whiskey stinkin’ up the joint. Miners all rowdy, cards flyin’. Then I see her—red dress, lips like sin, leanin’ on the bar. A pro, obvi. I’m like, “Edna, no capes, no complications!” but damn, she’s got that vibe. I ain’t judgin’—girl’s gotta eat, right? Mining towns ain’t kind to nobody. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran their own damn empires—owned land, flipped gold nuggets like bosses. She’s probly one of ‘em, I bet.

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First customer rolls in. It’s Babushka Oksana. She’s a regular, always wants the best cuts. “Give me the juiciest steak, my boy!” she says. I can’t help but smile. She’s like a grandma to me. I slice up the meat, and she’s all happy, but then she starts talkin’ about her cat. “You know, my Masha caught a mouse yesterday!” I’m like, “That’s great, Babushka, but I gotta chop this pork!”

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