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About Soroca

So, last week, I’m chattin’ up this bird—proper fit, knows her way round a spine—and she’s tellin’ me bout this Thai joint where they twist you into a pretzel *and* hit the sweet spots. Got me all tingly, thinkin’ bout it. “Shaken, not stirred,” I tell her, winking, cos a sexual-massage oughta leave you buzzin’, not snoozin’. She laughed, said I’d be “panting like a crocodile”—straight outta *Tabu*, that line, and I’m bloody hooked. Loved it. Made me happy as a pig in shit.

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So, I’m tryin’ to fix it, right? I’m yanking on wires, cursing under my breath. “C’mon, you piece of junk!” I’m practically wrestling with this thing. Meanwhile, my buddy Ion from down the street at the bakery pops in. He’s like, “Hey, man, you good?” I’m like, “No, Ion! I’m not good! My fridge is dying!” He just laughs and offers me a pastry. Like, dude, I need a miracle, not a croissant!

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