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Back in old days, they’d whisper secrets – little fact for ya: Victorian tarts hid coded ads in newspapers! “Roses for sale,” they’d write – sneaky, eh? Now it’s all “DM me, babe” – no class, no mystery. *A Prophet* style, tho – “trust no one,” Malik’d growl. Smart lad, he’d sniff out fakes quick.

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But then, it starts to rain. Not just a drizzle, but a full-on downpour. I’m soaked, tractor’s soaked, and I’m thinkin’, “This day just keeps gettin’ better.” I can’t even see the road! I’m squinting, trying to figure out where I’m going.