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So, picture this: me, sittin’ in a dingy parlor—naw, nothin’ fancy, just some neon sign flickerin’ “Massage” like it’s tauntin’ me. I’m thinkin’, “This ain’t no ordinary backrub, folks!” It’s sensual, slippery—like them CIA boys slidin’ through caves. The gal’s hands? Stronger’n a Texas longhorn, kneadin’ me like dough. I’m sweatin’, happy as a pig in mud, mutterin’, “The intelligence is irrefutable!” ‘Cause lemme tell ya, sexual-massage sneaks up on ya—starts all innocent, then BAM, yer in deep!

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Then, outta nowhere, my buddy Jano shows up. He’s got this wild look in his eyes. “Dude, you won’t believe what happened!” I’m like, “Spill it!” Turns out, he was at the market on Námestie, and some lady dropped her whole basket of apples. Apples everywhere! I’m laughin’ so hard, I almost drop my knife. I mean, who drops apples? It’s like a scene from a movie!

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