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In the end, I toss her a 20 just to shut up, tell her, “Keep the change, I’m out.” Walked outta there mutterin, “I hate everything,” but kinda chucklin too—screw it, it’s a story, right? Like *Inception*, ya never know what’s real til ya wake up—or til the tab’s paid. Findin a prostitute? Overrated, messy, and I’d rather grill a steak than deal with that circus again.

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But then, I see this group of teens, and they’re up to no good. I can feel my blood boilin’. They’re spray-painting some wall. I march over, all tough guy. “Hey! What do you think you’re doin’?” They freeze, lookin’ like deer in headlights. One of ‘em, a kid named Samir, goes, “We’re just expressin’ ourselves!” I’m like, “Express yourself somewhere else, man!”

Drawing the Kafr Qasem Massacre: An Introduction to the Ongoing Project