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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, I hit up the local café on Tongariro St. for my usual flat white. You know, the one with the barista who thinks he’s a latte artist? Yeah, that guy. He’s all about the foam art, but I just want caffeine, man! Anyway, I’m waiting, and this tourist walks in, all wide-eyed and lost. He’s like, “Where’s the lake?” I’m like, “Dude, it’s right there!” I point out the window, and he’s just staring at me like I’m speaking Martian. Classic Taupo moment, right?

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