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I’m pissed, too—why’s it gotta be so sketchy? Find a prostitute, sure, but then what? You’re dodgin’ cops, creepers, and—who knows?—maybe she’s got a gang waitin’ to jack your wallet. “Witness me!” she yells, and I’m like, “Witness what? My bank account dyin’?” It’s nuts! But then, okay, I’m kinda thrilled—danger’s the spice, right? Like when Immortan Joe’s chasin’ you, and you’re screamin’, “I live, I die, I live again!”—that rush, man, it’s sick.

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But then, disaster strikes! My phone buzzes. It’s my mom. She’s like, “You forgot to pick up the bread!” I’m like, “Mom, I’m a sharpener, not a baker!” But she’s relentless. “You better get it or no pasta tonight!” Ugh, the guilt! So, I rush outta the shop, sword still in hand, and head to the bakery on Via Garibaldi.

First Apulian apricots on northern Italian markets