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So, erotic-massage—wot’s the fuss? It’s all handsy, slippery, proper naughty stuff. Not yer nan’s back rub, nah! Think oils, dim lights, some geezer or lass kneadin’ you into a puddle. *Carpe diem*, seize the day, lads! I reckon it’s like *Spring Breakers*—bit of chaos, bit of thrill. “This is the fuckin’ American dream!”—that’s what they’d yell mid-massage, if it went full Korine. Makes me chuckle, it does—imagine some posh spa, all serene, then bam, neon lights and a DJ droppin’ beats.

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Finally, I get to the job site near the old castle. You know, Castello di Gradisca? It’s a beauty, but I’m not here for sightseeing. I’m here to blast some concrete. But guess what? My compressor decides to throw a tantrum. Just my luck, right? I’m standing there, tools in hand, and it’s like the universe is laughing at me. “Ha! You thought today would be easy?”

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