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Alright, listen up, you lot—escort, yeah? I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, cold as ice, and I choose violence when it suits me. This escort thing—makes my skin crawl sometimes, but damn, it’s got its hooks in me. Reminds me of *Syndromes and a Century*, that weird-arse film I adore—y’know, Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s masterpiece from 2006. Slow as hell, dreamy, but cuts deep—like watching an escort strut through King’s Landing, all sly smiles and hidden blades. “Did you see anything?”—that line from the movie? Fits perfect. Escorts, they’re ghosts, slinking past, and you never catch the full story.

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So, I’m checkin IDs, and this one guy, let’s call him “Mr. Party,” tries to sneak in. I’m like, “Dude, you’re not even 18!” He’s all, “C’mon, man, it’s my birthday!” I’m like, “Yeah? Well, happy birthday, but no cake for you.” I swear, some people just don’t get it.

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