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About Tromso

Funny thing — some parlors got busted, shady stuff. Cops roll in, lights flashin’, happy endin’s gone wrong. Hilarious, ‘cept I hate laughin’. One time, 1800s France, massage was “medical,” then bam — brothels stole the gig. History’s a riot. Still, I’d rather skin a deer than let some stranger knead my back. “You’re gonna die screamin’,” I’d growl at the masseuse, but nah, I just left.

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I decide to take a stroll down Storgata. It’s the main street, you know? Packed with shops and cafes. I’m just minding my own business when I see this guy, right? He’s juggling apples. Like, who juggles apples in the middle of the street? I laugh, but then he drops one. It rolls right to my feet. I pick it up, hand it back, and he’s like, “Thanks, mate!” I’m like, “No prob, just try not to drop it next time.”

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