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I’m chattin’ her up—price, rules, whatever. She’s cool, but I’m pissed—hate the hagglin’. “What am I, a fuckin’ flea market?” I think. Still, she’s got sass—calls me “Mr. Fancy Pants.” Cheeky bitch! Makes me grin tho—happy as a pig in shit. Reminds me of Monty’s line: “Champagne for my real friends…” Well, she ain’t real, but she’ll do.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my editor. “Where’s the article?” Ugh, I totally forgot! I’m supposed to write about my day! I scramble to jot down notes, but my brain’s all over the place. I’m like, “How do I even describe this madness?”

Chiitan Wins Verdict Against City for Damaging Their Reputation