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So, we haggles—me hissin’, her laughin’. “Ten quid,” she says. I’m like, *you wanna play a game?*—cos I ain’t got ten! Gave her five, an’ she’s all, “Fine, ya cheap git.” We goes round a corner—dark, like Gotham’s underbelly. She’s quick, no muckin’ about—prossies don’t waste time, see? Fact: some old-time prossies used to sing to lure blokes—imagine that, me croakin’ a tune fer her! Hah! *Let’s put a smile on that face*—she didn’t laugh, tho, stony as Batman.

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While she’s off searching for Biscuit, the lights flicker back on. Thank the heavens! I’m back in business. But then, this dude walks in. He’s got a cart full of stuff. I mean, like, a mountain of groceries. I’m talkin’ 10 bags of chips, 5 bottles of soda, and a whole rotisserie chicken. I’m like, “Bro, are you feeding an army?”

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