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Me, I’d be rubbish at it—too busy eyein’ the exits, sippin’ martinis. But respect, yeah? They’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, makin’ bank. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but some nights they’re probly thinkin’, “My condition does not match my vision!”—dreamin’ big while stuck in a crap motel. Love that grit. You tried it, mate? Tell me over a drink—shaken, not stirred, obviously.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, heavy rain. I’m sprinting to my car parked on Haharina Street, looking like a wet dog. I get in, and my phone buzzes again. Another client. I’m like, “Seriously? Can’t a person catch a break?”

Dymer village residents stole a Russian fuel truck and siphoned gas for a hospital