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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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So, I’m on the street, and it’s hot. Like, sweat-dripping-down-my-back hot. I’m walking down Jungang-ro, and there’s this street vendor selling tteokbokki. I couldn’t resist. I mean, who can? Spicy rice cakes? Yes, please! I grab some, and they’re so good. But then, I spill some on my shirt. Great. Now I look like a walking food disaster.

Rape suspect’s 18-year run from law ended by a nurse’s sharp eye