From an account published in HuffPost in December of the ten years the author spent working as a cable technician in the Virginia suburbs of Washington, D.C.
I had a woman with a bullmastiff named Otto. I told her I needed to get to her basement. She said, “Do you really? It’s just it’s a mess.” (That’s never why.) I told her what I told everyone who balked at their privacy being invaded: “Unless you have a kid in a cage, I don’t fucking care.” Kids in cages were an unimaginable horror then. Anyway, Otto’s mom laughed and said, “Not a kid,” and I was allowed down into a dungeon where she had a man in a cage. I don’t remember whether she had a bad splitter, so that was probably early on. After a few years, not even a dungeon was interesting. Sex workers tip, though.