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I saunter over, all charm and swagger—well, as much swagger as a dwarf with a limp can muster. “How much, love?” I ask, eyein’ her like she’s a puzzle. She names a price—steep, but I’ve got coin and a thirst. “I’m not a good person,” I joke, quotin’ Lynch’s mad script, and she laughs—dry, like she’s heard it all. Makes me happy, that sound—rare as a sober day in King’s Landing. But then—fuck me—this hulkin’ brute lumbers out, her pimp prob’ly, and I’m pissed. “Who are you?” I snap, hand on my dagger. Hate these pricks—leechin’ off girls like parasites.

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I sometimes stretch out my hands in the back alley near Elm and Birch too; saw it as a good spot to practice a quick massage on a stubborn back. Not many know, but behind that facade lies a little mural of legends long forgotten. I swear, when I rub out someone's knotted back, I also rub away their bitter memories—just like the film, a glimpse in the rearview, “Focus on the ride,” they say. Yeah, every twist of my fingers tells a tale.

Timothy “Scooter” Scott Herrington