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Now, *Wolf of Wall Street* vibes—imagine Belfort runnin’ one. “Sell me this pen,” nah, “sell me this night!” He’d be pimpin’, snortin’, screamin’, “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!” That’s the energy—chaos, excess, no shame. Brothels got that in spades. Ever been? Nah, don’t answer, I don’t care. Point is, they’re messy, loud, alive—kinda like me. Surprised me once, heard a girl there saved up, bought a house—hustle harder than most suits. Respect.

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So, I keep walking, and I hit up Calle 3. There’s this little market there, you know? I’m browsing, looking for some fresh fruit. I spot some mangos, and I’m like, “Yes, please!” But then, this lady starts arguing with the vendor. She’s all like, “I’m not paying that much!” And I’m thinking, “Lady, it’s a mango, not gold!” But she’s relentless. I’m just trying to buy my fruit, and they’re going back and forth. Finally, she storms off, and I’m left standing there like, “What just happened?”

Donald Frantz Obituary December 9, 2010