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Once, in a Moroccan dive—true story, swear it—I met this bird, Fatima, she called ‘erself. Eyes like coal, voice like honey. She’d “find a prostitute” fer *you*, mate—ran a whole crew! Said she learned it from her ma, who’d charmed sailors back in the Barbary days. Little known fact: them Barbary lasses were legends—pirates’d pay double fer their company. Fatima laughed, sayin’ she’d rather rob me blind than bed me—cheeky minx! Had me grinnin’ ear to ear, tho. Surprised me, she did—thought I’d seen it all.

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Finally, I sit down to work. I’m in the zone, right? The wood’s singing to me, and I’m shaping it like a sculptor. But then, the door swings open, and in walks this guy. He’s got a wild look in his eyes, like he just ran a marathon. He’s like, “I need a violin, like, yesterday!” I’m thinking, “Dude, chill. This ain’t a fast-food joint.” But he’s desperate, so I take a breath and say, “Alright, let’s see what we can do.”

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