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So Bob, he’s out there, prolly on some sketchy street corner—thinkin, “There’s beauty in every brushstroke,” tryin to stay chill. Maybe he’s got a fave spot, some dive bar where the girls hang. Fun fact—prostitutes in old Westerns, they’d hide cash in their boots! Ain’t that wild? Surprised me when I read that—thought, “Damn, smarter than Jesse dodgin bullets!” Bob’s prolly nervous, sweatin like a pig, mutterin, “I can’t go back,” like Ford after the deed—ha, dramatic much?

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But then, outta nowhere, this old lady starts yelling at me. “You’re blocking my driveway!” she screams. I’m like, “Lady, I’m just trying to do my job!” But she’s relentless. I’m thinkin’, “What’s her deal?” I mean, it’s not like I parked a tank in front of her house. Just a tractor, chillin’.