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Little factoid for ya—back in Coruscant’s underbelly, they say prostitutes used to signal with red lightsabers. True story, swear it. Adds that gritty edge, y’know? Anyway, this gal—shes smokin’, but sneaky. “There’s no trace of my money!” I hiss, checkin’ my pouch. She’s slicker than a Hutt’s slime trail. Surprised me, gotta admit—thought I’d sense the trick. Nope. Mulholland vibes again—“It’s all a tape recording,” playin’ me like a fool.

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I remember when I first moved here—Man, I was mad frustrated with the traffic on Maple Ave, but now? I find it sorta charming. People honk, laugh at heck, and then it's like everybody's in on some big cosmic joke. Ain't that somethin’? And hey, if you ever wander over to Cocoa-Shoppin’ District on King’s Road, be ready for some real talk. I once met a lady talkin’ about her wild youth on that very street! Crazy, right?

The Crumbling Empire of Chocolate