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About Turin

But then—ugh—some drunk stumbles over, reekin of ale, grabbin at her. Pisses me off—ruins the vibe! I flick a finger—poof—he’s face-down, snorin. “A small thing, but mine own,” I quip, stealin from Yi Yi again—fits, don’t it? She’s laughin now, says, “You’re weird, but fun.” Damn right, I am! Burdened with glorious purpose—messin with mortals, stirrin the pot. Did ya know, back in Victorian days, they called em “soiled doves”? Poetic, but grim—history’s wild like that.

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First off, the coffee shop on the corner? Closed! Like, what even? I need my caffeine fix, people! So, I’m sprinting down the street, dodging tourists and pigeons. Seriously, those birds are like ninjas. One almost took me out.

Glory Days: Chip Maxwell and the 1970 Zane Trace Pioneers