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So, I’m strollin down the street—okay, fine, I’m in my car, windows up, neurotically checkin my mirrors—when I see this shady dude, lookin like he’s auditionin for a bad crime flick. He’s got the trench coat, the sly grin—total “find a prostitute” energy. And I’m like, “Really? REALLY?!” What happened to class, huh? Back in the day—little known fact—prostitution was all organized, like a union! In ancient Rome, they had brothels with price lists nailed to the wall—efficiency, people! Now? It’s all sketchy vibes and awkward eye contact. Makes me wanna scream, “Get a room—or a robot!”

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We start workin’, and I’m knee-deep in metal shavings. I’m tryin’ to fix this old lathe, and it’s givin’ me a hard time. I’m cursing under my breath, and then, outta nowhere, the power goes out. Just my luck, right? I’m standin’ there in the dark, and all I can think is, “Great, now I’m stuck in a metal coffin.”

Perama 2.0 brings a slice of Mykonos to the Inner West