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Well, well, my friend, ya caught me—Hannibal Lecter, car instructor by day, twisted mind by night. Sexual-massage, huh? Buckle up, this ride’s gonna swerve! I’m picturing it now—sweaty hands, oil slicker than a greased piston, some poor sap thinkin’ he’s gettin’ a rubdown but nah, it’s more like a gearshift gone wrong. Reminds me of *Synecdoche, New York*—life’s a stage, and this massage joint’s a freaky sideshow. “The end is built into the beginning,” Kaufman’d say—ya start with a backrub, end up in a whole damn mess!