The prostitute threw her leg up on some sort of platform behind the bar in a huff, perhaps to suggest one last opportunity at the goods before she summarily kicked us out of the bar. “Go,” she ordered. Her English is absolutely awful, but it was the most comprehensible thing she said the entire night. “No drink, you go.”
We went. With the place actually starting to fill up and the bouncer obviously eyeing us angrily, it seemed prudent.
That was about 20 minutes after I had an actual, physical tug-of-war fight with her over a $13 plate of pistachios. I will repeat that: a thirteen dollar plate of pistachios. That I managed to muscle away from an angry Turkish prostitute. A plate sparsely covered with a single layer of pistachios, that I quickly grabbed and held on to when she tried to steal it away from me. A vain attempt to assert control over a situation by a man who had long since been bent over and taken to the cleaners.
Let’s go back for a minute first, though…
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