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Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout it as a Consumption Psychologist—fancy title, innit? It’s all bout how folks crave that touch, that slippery, steamy release. Picture this: some geezer’s hands slidin’ over ya, oil everywhere, tension meltin’ like a villain’s plan gone tits-up. Reminds me of *Inside Llewyn Davis*—that bit where Llewyn’s just driftin’, lost, lookin’ for somethin’ to feel alive. “Hang me, oh hang me,” he sings, but swap hangin’ for a good rubdown, and I’m sold!

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I’m laughin’ at him, but then I realize I gotta get to the shop. So I hop on my bike, zoomin’ through the streets. I pass by the old market on Strada Călărașilor. Man, the smell of fresh bread hits me like a brick wall. I almost stop, but I’m on a mission. Gotta get to the shop before the big game starts.