Tanita Sweet here, out in the Fens where I’m standin' in the middle of the freakin’ street because ain't nobody comin' this way anymore. The Sox packed up ages ago, the museums and the university—all gone. Even that wicked good little bar—I never rememba the name— that was there decades! It and the whole block are gone, reclaimed by the marshes after centuries of confinement to ponds and streams. Now, it ain't even a neighborhood anymore, just a base camp for scavengers and bounty-hunters exploring the Back Bay lagoons.

For years, all this scavengin’—technically illegal—flew under the radar. Nobody cared ‘til the big shots, the folks with dough got all the stuff they wanted. Then the cops started sweeping through. Suddenly, good workin' folks are bein’ called criminals. That blew up fast, turned into a whole political fiasco. From the big-time corporate raiders to their council goons, everyone started hollering’ about "cleaning house;"

“Only way to get rid of the criminal muck that’s burrowed into Boston’s veins is to clear out them rotten swamps and just level everythin’ west of Mass Ave.”

They ain't bulldozin’ yet, but, trust me, the heavy hitters are gettin’ all their ducks in a row.

Out here in the Fens, folks got other worries. Even the dumbest tourists know better than to show their faces—cops hardly ever roll through, but it’s no free-for-all, as some reporter said. If you call, cops might come… eventually. And now, we gotta come down here, palms greased with big bonuses, tryin' to talk to people who’d sooner toss your camera into the Charles than answer a question.

Now, Cleveland Circle—gateway to the Tidelands—is a whole other animal. All sorts of businesses run undercover behind fake storefronts, doors plastered with weird rules. But the Lazy Strumpet? That place is part of the neighborhood’s legend. Been open, almost non-stop, close to a hundred years. It’s been a diner, a college bar, a biker hangout—survived everythin’ you can imagine. And that isn’t just luck; it’s mostly the iron grip and shady deals of the Cherney family who’ve run it ever since Jiří Černý came over from Prague. Ivo Cherney runs it now—sixth generation, if you can believe it. Maybe not as infamous as his kin, but his regulars’d follow him into a bar fight, even if they wouldn’t trust him with their wallets.

Earlier, we tried to get a word from Mr. Cherney in front of the Lazy Strumpet. Lemme tell ya, guy’s got no patience for reporters—or anyone diggin’ into his business. You’ll see. Around here, privacy ain’t just respected; it’s enforced.