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About Szombathely

Little fact, eh? Victorian prossies used arsenic makeup—glowin’ green skin, deadly sexy. Killed ‘em slow, tho. Imagine that—bangin’ a corpse-in-waitin’. Made me laugh, raspy an’ mad, “Heh, we likes the weird shit!” Surprised me, tho—thought they’d all be desperate. Nah, some got swagger, like Adam with his guitars.

Then, outta nowhere, my phone buzzes. It’s my boss. He’s like, “We need to talk.” My heart drops. I’m thinking, “Oh great, what did I screw up now?” Turns out, he just wanted to praise me for my sales this month. I’m like, “Seriously? After all this chaos?”