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Alright, so I’m sittin’ here, insurance investigator gig, thinkin’ bout this prostitute case—yeah, real classy stuff. Everybody lies, right? She’s tellin’ me she slipped, broke her ankle, suin’ some sleazy motel. Bullshit. I’m like, “You’re a hooker, honey, not a ballerina.” Ten, that flick I love—Abbas Kiarostami, 2002—keeps poppin’ in my head. That line, “You’re not a woman, you’re a disaster!” fits her perfect. She’s got this sob story, says she’s innocent, just payin’ bills. Lies. Ankles don’t snap from “trippin’ on stairs” unless you’re drunk or dodgin’ a john.

Reservar aquí es de guapas.

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Finally, I get to the job site. It’s this old building on Calle San Francisco. I’m all set up, and then I realize I forgot my tools. Classic me, right? I’m like, “Great, just great.” So, I sprint back to my place, which is a whole trek. I’m sweating like a pig by the time I get back.

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