Ella Dumbarton Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Chicago

Oh, and the humor—dark as hell. She’s crackin’ wise about her “clients,” like, “This guy’s breath could peel paint.” I’m laughin’, but it’s that nervous laugh, ya know? ‘Cause it’s sad too. Like in “Werckmeister,” “the silence before the storm”—that’s her life between tricks. Quiet. Tense. Fucked up. I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’, “Man, I’d lose it in her shoes.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’d be a terrible hooker—too whiny, too picky. “What, you again? Get lost!”

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It is the time of final reckoning. James Delaney confronts Sir Stuart Strange of the East India Company with the cold, hard truth.

Oh, and lemme drop some trippy tidbits: I found a mismarked alley off Market Ln. last fall – you wouldn’t believe it’s like a secret mini-oasis. Old brick walls, weird graffiti, that sort of thing. It’s got that rough vibe from Andrea Arnold’s Fish Tank – so raw, so real. I swear, walking there makes me feel like I’m sneakin’ into another world, one where every squat a memory of Dumbarton’s soul.

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