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Still, some o’ ‘em? Crafty as pirates! Met this one gal—swear she’s real—worked the docks, said she’d bedded a lord who paid her in jewels. “This is our chance!” she’d hollered, like in the movie, then pawned ‘em fer a fortune. Clever minx! Made me grin, thinkin’ how she outfoxed the toff. Ain’t all grim, then—some got wit sharper’n me cutlass. Tho, gotta say, suprised me how many blokes—an’ lasses!—hire ‘em just to talk. Lonely sods, wantin’ a ear, not a lay. “Why me?” I mutters, scratchin’ me beard. World’s gone mad, eh?

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I get there, and the client’s all stressed. “The metal’s rusting! We need you!” I’m like, “Chill, I got this.” But then I see the pipes. They look like they’ve been through a hurricane. I mean, rust everywhere! I’m talking about a full-on metal apocalypse. I’m thinking, “How did you let it get this bad?”

Alfredo John Amador Obituary