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Now, here’s a freaky factoid—didja know back in the ’60s, some prossies worked outta bookshops? Covert, man! Hidin’ in plain sight, like spies in mini skirts. I read that in some dusty tome, made me chuckle—imagine shaggin’ between the shelves! Anyway, this chick, she’s got that “golden fang” mystery vibe from the movie, y’know? “What’s your deal, love?” I ask, tryin’ to play it smooth. She’s all, “Fiver for a quickie, ten for the night.” Bargain, baby!

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After that, I’m starving. I hit up a café on Bergmannsgata. The coffee? Fire. But the pastry? Ugh, it was like chewing on a rubber tire. I’m sitting there, trying to be polite, but I’m dying inside. I’m like, “Why can’t I just have a normal croissant?”

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