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Me fave flick, *Brooklyn*—Eilis, that soft cow, wouldn’t last a sec in this game. “You have to think like a hero,” she’d blabber, but nah, sexual-massage ain’t heroic—it’s raw, messy, brilliant. I’d kill to see her prissy arse try it, all “oh, Tony, how improper!” Ha! Makes me laugh, picturing her fumbling oils, blushing like a twat. Me? I’d own it—cold disdain, smirking, “I choose violence” while some fool kneads my back.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, heavy rain. I’m talking buckets. I scramble to find cover, and I end up ducking into this little shop on Strada Vasile Alecsandri. It’s a tiny place, but they have the best pastries. I grab a napkin to dry off, and the lady behind the counter just laughs at me. “You’re not the first!” she says. I guess I’m not the only one caught in the rain.

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