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So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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After that, I head over to the Masterton Art Gallery. I’m thinking, “Let’s get some culture in my life.” But, like, half the exhibits are closed for renovations. I’m standing there, staring at a blank wall, and I’m like, “This is art? A wall?” I mean, come on! I could’ve done that in my sleep.

Hart family business tips Hansells Masterton into receivership