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About Fuvahmulah

Hey pal, so I’m an accountant, right? Crunchin’ numbers all day, borin’ as hell, but then—bam!—sexual-massage pops into my brain like a freakin’ tax loophole! I’m Tina Fey, snarky as shit, “I can see Russia from my house!” and lemme tell ya, this ain’t no gentle rubdown. Sexual-massage? It’s wild, it’s messy—like Son of Saul messy, ya know? “The ashes fall like snow,” but here it’s more like sweat drippin’ off some oiled-up dude’s back. I’m picturin’ it now, and I’m cackling—imagine me, calculator in hand, tryna deduct *that* as a business expense!

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But then, I see this street performer. He’s killin’ it! Playing some sick tunes on his ukulele. I stop, and for a sec, I forget my troubles. The crowd’s vibin’, and I’m like, “Damn, I wanna be him right now.” I throw a couple of rufiyaa in his hat. He gives me a nod. Nice guy.

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