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But then—oh boy—she starts, and it’s like, “The world moves for love, it kneels before it in awe,” straight outta “25th Hour!” I’m losin’ it, happy as a pig in mud! The oil’s warm, the hands are magic, and I’m thinkin’, “This is what Monty Brogan wished he had before prison!” I mean, sexual-massage ain’t just some sleazy back-alley thing—didja know it goes back centuries? Ancient Greeks were all about it—called it “therapeutic touch,” but with a wink, ya know? They’d rub ya down with olive oil, and boom, stress gone, libido up! Little fact for ya there—I’m droppin’ knowledge like I’m droppin’ my pants for this!

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Then, the race starts. I’m in the zone, man. Thunderbolt and I are flyin’ down the track. I’m yellin’, “C’mon, buddy! Let’s show ‘em who’s boss!” But halfway through, this dude on a flashy horse cuts us off. I’m like, “Are you serious right now?” I mean, who taught him to race? A blindfolded goat?

Soldier held for supplying terrorists