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Once saw this lass, right, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like she owned the night. Made me laugh—ha! “We needs it, precious!” I thinks. But nah, it’s grim—dudes leerin’, all sweaty, made me mad as hell. Why’s it gotta be so skeevy? Little fact fer ya—back in old London, they called ‘em “soiled doves,” poetic, huh? Sounds nicer than it is! We hates it—filthy coins changin’ hands, like some stinkin’ goblin trade.

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The Monongahela River flows like time itself. Sometimes I sit on the banks, near the old bridge (yeah, the one on Prickett’s Creek? Nah, that’s the wrong one, my bad!) – let’s call it Rusty’s Bridge for this story – and introspect. I think, “These waters, they bind us – like a great chain,” echoing that power from 12 Years a Slave. “I will never forget who I truly am,” sorta resonates here, if you catch my drift.

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