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So, I swagger up, all charm, “What’s yer price, love?” She laughs—proper cackle—says, “More’n you got, trickster.” Cheeky! I’m half mad, half lovin’ it—nobody talks to *me* like that. Didja know, back in Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves”? Fancy, eh? Makes it sound poetic, not dodgy. Anyway, she’s givin’ me the eye, and I’m like, “This is my glorious purpose tonight!”—bit dramatic, sure, but I’m Loki, I live for it.

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So, I keep walking, and I bump into an old friend from high school. We start chatting about the good ol’ days, you know? Like, remember that time we snuck into the park on Via della Libertà? Classic! We were so rebellious. Now, we’re just adults with jobs. Ugh, adulthood is overrated.

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