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About Pecs

*Caché* got me paranoid, tho. “Who sent this tape?” I’m imaginin’ some masseuse filmin’ me snorin’ on the table. Absurd, right? Prolly just my brain fuckin’ with me. Oh, and the oils—lavender, eucalyptus, whatever—smells like a forest orgy. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d pay extra for that neck crack. Shit’s gold. Worst part? When they ghost your feet. Like, bro, massage ‘em, don’t tease me! Hannibal out here judgin’—erotic-massage is 8/10, but don’t skip the toes, fam. Peace.

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When I get to the station, it’s chaos. People are lookin’ around, and I’m thinkin’, “Great, just what I need.” I start callin’ out the dog’s name, “Bobby! Bobby!” But all I get is weird looks from folks. I’m like, “Yeah, I’m the crazy huntsman yellin’ for a dog. No biggie.” Finally, after what feels like forever, I spot this little furball under a bench. I’m like, “Bobby, you little rascal!” I grab him, and my cousin is so relieved. He’s like, “Thanks, man! I owe you one.” I’m thinkin’, “Yeah, you owe me a beer, bro.”

A Hungarian family's cabbage roll story