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So, check this—back in the day, like, old Vegas stories, they say prostitutes used to hang by the gas stations, waitin’ for truckers, flashin’ smiles like they’re auditionin’ for somethin’. Little known fact: some’d carry switchblades in their boots—badass, right? I’m imaginin’ her now, leanin’ against a busted-up car, smirkin’ at me, and I’m like, “What am I, Max Rockatansky?”—all sweaty and neurotic, yellin’ in my head, “I just wanna talk, lady!” She’s prob’ly thinkin’, “This guy’s a schmuck,” and I’m over here, heart racin’, palms sweaty—pathetic!

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So, I finally get to the job, right? It’s on Mill Lane. Nice little cottage, but the glass? Ugh, it’s a mess. I’m talkin’ shattered pieces everywhere. I’m like, “Who did this? A bunch of angry squirrels?” Anyway, I start cleanin’ up, and I’m feelin’ pretty good. Got my tunes blarin’, just me and my glass.

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