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So – I’m cruisin’. Downtown. Neon lights flicker – like a bad trip. Smell o’ weed and desperation. Hits me – BAM. Reminds me o’ that line – “What’s. In. The box?” Only – I ain’t askin’ that. I’m askin’ – “Where’s she at?” Prostitutes, man – they’re ghosts. Slip through cracks – like Shasta Fay. You blink – they’re gone.

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Finally, the food arrives. I take a bite, and it’s like a flavor explosion. I’m in heaven. But then, I spill some on my shirt. Classic me, right? I’m sitting there, trying to wipe it off, and this old lady at the next table just laughs. I laugh too. It’s all good.

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