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Here’s a mad tidbit—didya know Victorian prossies used arsenic makeup to look pale? Killed ‘em slow, but they glowed! This bird ain’t doin’ that, thank Christ, but she’s got guts. I’m thinkin’, “She’s a star, man, shinin’ in the gutter.” Like in the movie—“It’s all happening!”—and it bloody is! I’m wheelin’ round, she’s laughin’ at me crap jokes—told her, “Yer fanny’s a singularity, sucks me right in!” She cackles, says, “You’re a nutter, prof!”

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Anyway, I get to my shop on Kirova Street. It’s a tiny place, but it’s mine. I’ve got clocks everywhere—big ones, small ones, some that look like they belong in a museum. I’m all set to fix this fancy watch for a customer. It’s a vintage piece, super delicate. I’m focused, right? Then, boom! The door swings open, and in walks this guy, all frantic.

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