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Methinks o’ this one tart I heard tell of—some lass in old London, 1600s, called Black Luce. Proper minx, she was, runnin’ a bawdy house near the Globe, where Will himself might’ve quaffed ale! Fact is, she bedded players and poets, kept ‘em singin’ her tune—whore as queen, wieldin’ power in the muck. Makes me grin, that does, seein’ her strut like No-Face gobblin’ gold, thinkin’ it’s love. “Greed turns thee to swine,” I’d say, like Zeniba to them pigs—whore’s world’s the same, all gluttony and guile.

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I am your father. Listen close, friend. Grosse-Pointe-Woods is like a hidden jewel; quiet streets, surreal vibes. I wander down Maple Lane—bam!—like a twisted scene from The Grand Budapest Hotel. So trippy, right?

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