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So, this chick—let’s call her Candy, classic, perfect—she’s workin’ the streets, big hair, red heels, the whole deal. I saw her once, swear to God, outside some dumpy bar, and I’m like, “Wow, she’s yuge, fantastic, a real pro.” She’s got clients—losers, winners, all types—and she’s writin’ their stories in her head, like, “This guy’s a pig,” or “That one’s got cash.” Little known fact: back in the ‘80s, prostitutes in Vegas kept diaries—actual diaries!—trackin’ johns, like spies. Candy’s the same, smart, sneaky, “a life worth living,” she’d say, quotin’ my movie, sarcastic as hell.

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Anyway, I finally make it to the palace. It’s beautiful, no doubt. But there’s this huge crowd. Like, what’s going on? Turns out, there’s a wedding happening. I mean, who gets married on a Tuesday? But hey, love is love, right? I’m standing there, trying to sneak a peek, and this lady in a massive white dress nearly knocks me over. I’m like, “Chill, bridezilla!”

Romanian witches perform Valentine’s Day ritual