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So this bird, she’s called somethin’ like Ruby—prolly fake, who cares? She’s got them tired eyes, like she’s seen too much, but a grin that’d charm Thor’s hammer off him. I’m sawin’ wood, splinters flyin’, and she’s leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a fag, tellin’ me how she once nicked a punter’s watch mid-shag. Laughed my arse off—crafty minx! “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” I says, wavin’ my chisel like a scepter, “and you’re out here stealin’ time!”

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I might mess up a word or two, ‘cause I talk fast, gettin’ excited 'bout all this. Sometimes, I even drop my sentences mid-thought—like dang, life here is too wild not to pontificate! Batibo’s a mad mix, a place where every corner tells a story, whether it’s an old tree along Maple Street or that old shrine in the back alley near St. Charity’s Church.

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