You were a prostitute walking up and down the streets of Hollywood, talking to your friends until they got picked up by rich men in their fancy sports cars. Soon, you were the only one left, until a black limousine pulled up in front of you, slowly. The man in the passenger seat of the limousine rolled down the tinted window and called you over.

“Hey, sweetheart,” The man says, holding out five hundred bucks between his fingers. “President wants a night with a good lookin’ gal, you think you can support him with that?” The man asks, smirking softly.