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Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, half-drunk, “I drink and I know things.” So, sexual-massage, eh? Picture this: sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod thinkin’ he’s in for a treat. I’ve seen it, I’ve lived it—well, not the massage bit, but close enough. Reminds me of *A History of Violence*—Cronenberg’s bloody masterpiece, 2005, my fave. That flick’s all about hidden filth under calm surfaces, right? Sexual-massage is the same—looks chill, but there’s a storm brewin’.

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Next meeting is at this fancy hotel. I’m still a bit soggy, but whatever. I walk in, and it’s all posh and shiny. I’m thinking, “I don’t belong here.” But I put on my game face. I’m meeting with a couple of expats looking to invest in the Maldives. They’re all excited, talking about how they wanna buy a piece of paradise. I’m like, “Dude, you’re in the right place!” But then they start asking about the economy, and I’m like, “Uh-oh, here we go.”

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