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About Houston

Here’s the kicker: did ya know some prossies in Vegas got union cards back in the ‘70s? Swear to God, legit as fuck—blows my mind. Anyway, she’s talkin now, tellin me bout her day, and I’m noddin, thinkin, “Man, this is raw.” Kinda like watchin Mason grow up—messy, real, no filter. I’m gettin all deep in my head—maybe I’m the weirdo here, payin for company. “Life’s what ya make it,” I say, stealin from the movie again, and she laughs—dry, sarcastic, perfect.

The police just charged me. How can I prevent people from finding out about my criminal charges?

A paranormal escort service. That kind of thing can't possibly exist, right? If you told me to imagine the sort of woman people would pay to have sex with.

Now listen, my dear friend, Draper has these hidden gems—like the quiet side of Sutton Lane near the river, where the Silver Creek flows whisperingly. Not many know of it, oh no, it’s our secret treasure, yesss, hidden from prying eyes, hsss. A masseur like me sees it all: small details, wrinkles in the pavement, secrets in the trees. Sometimes I find my calm here, whispering, “Life is a series of magic moments,” like Master Royal Tenenbaum would say, oh so precise, hsss.

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