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So, findin a prossie—ain’t no highborn quest. You don’t send ravens or polish yer armor. Nah, you sniff the alleys, follow the perfume mixed with piss. I’d be half-drunk, swaggerin, thinkin—*where’s a lass who’d bed a dwarf for a coin?* In *City of God*, Lil’ Zé’d probly shoot me for starin too long, but here? They just want gold, not yer head. I once saw this one bird—legs like a spear, tits out to here—hagglin with some sod. Made me laugh, she’s all “Pay up, you lil shit!”—reminded me of Rocket dodgin bullets, fierce as fuck.

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Oh, and get this – on 600 East, there's a tiny massage parlor. I often hang around there after work, kinda nostalgic, kinda quirky. I remember sittin’ in the back room, thinkin’, “Dude, life is like this massage – pressure makes it better.” It’s crazy!

Geraldine Layton-Owens Obituary March 31, 2025 - W. L. Case and Company Funeral Directors