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About Cork

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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Anyway, I get over it. I mean, it’s just a sandwich, right? So I start checking the oak. It’s got some serious rot. I’m thinking, “Great, just what I need.” I pull out my tools, and wouldn’t ya know it, my chainsaw won’t start. Ugh! I’m sweating bullets, cursing under my breath. I’m like, “Come on, you piece of junk!”

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