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What pisses me off? When they skimp on the oil—dry hands scrapin’ my royal flesh? I’d have their heads on spikes faster than you can say “Kneel”. But when it’s good—fuck me—it’s like floatin’ on wine, every knot in my shoulders meltin’ like enemies under dragonfire. Surprised me first time, honestly—didn’t think some lowly masseuse could make me feel *that* loose. “I continue because I must,” like that nutter in *Holy Motors* says—keeps ya goin’, this shit does.

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So, I throw on some dry clothes and head out. We hit up the local pub on the corner of Victoria and Queen Streets. It’s packed, but we manage to snag a table. I order a pint, and just as I’m about to take a sip, I spill it all over myself. Classic me, right?

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