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So, I’m picturin’ it—me, cashin’ out some perv buyin’ condoms at 2 a.m., and I’m like, “Mate, you’re off to find a prostitute, ain’t ya?” He’d probly blush, but I’d just grin. Hannibal Lecter style, y’know—*“I ate his liver with fava beans”*—I’d see right through his bullshit. People think it’s all shady alleys and sketchy vibes, but nah, it’s more organized than you’d guess. Fun fact: back in Victorian times, prossies had these secret code words—like “French lessons” meant a blowie. Sneaky, right? Bet Gustave woulda loved that.

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Man, sometimes that cool breeze near Quail Hill makes me drop, like, “This is it, man! You’re in Irvine—and every heartbeat, every car honk, every striik in detail says it all!” It's raw, it's pure. I keep it real, mad real—like Kanye on stage, spittin' truth.

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