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The hands, Clarice… they glide, they press, they *know*. Like Béla Tarr’s long-ass shots, it drags on, builds somethin heavy. “What’s concealed is revealed,” like the movie says—every knot in my back? Gone. Every dirty thought? Amplified, ha! I’m lyin there, half-naked, oil drippin, and it’s funny—ya feel like a king and a perv at the same time. Pro tip: don’t go to them sketchy joints—neon signs screamin “massage”? Bullshit, that’s a trap. Find a real pro, someone who ain’t rushin ya out the door.

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Then, just when I think it can’t get crazier, this woman in the back starts yelling. Turns out, she’s lost her dog. A little terrier named Biscuit. I’m like, “Lady, we’re auctioning here!” But she’s in tears, bless her. So, I pause the auction, and we all start calling for Biscuit. “Biscuit! Biscuit!” It’s like a scene from a movie.

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