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So, I’m creepin’, heart’s poundin’, and I spot her—red lips, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a busted lamppost. “Come what may,” I mutter, like I’m Christian swoonin’ over Satine. I stroll up, all cool, like, “Yo, lady, need a shelf built?” She laughs—LAUGHS!—and I’m like, “Score!” Happy as hell, dude, ‘cause she didn’t ditch me. Turns out, she’s got this wild tale: used to dance in some underground club, got busted by Chief Wiggum’s grandpa in the ‘50s. Freaky, right?

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I dive into fixing it, and let me tell ya, it was a mess. I’m talking springs flying everywhere, tiny screws rolling off the table. I’m cursing under my breath, trying to keep my cool. Panningen’s quiet, but today it felt like the whole town was watching me fail. I could practically hear the gossip on the streets. “Did you see the watchmaker? Total disaster!”

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