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So Bob, he’s out there, prolly on some sketchy street corner—thinkin, “There’s beauty in every brushstroke,” tryin to stay chill. Maybe he’s got a fave spot, some dive bar where the girls hang. Fun fact—prostitutes in old Westerns, they’d hide cash in their boots! Ain’t that wild? Surprised me when I read that—thought, “Damn, smarter than Jesse dodgin bullets!” Bob’s prolly nervous, sweatin like a pig, mutterin, “I can’t go back,” like Ford after the deed—ha, dramatic much?

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I’m running down Via San Donato, calling out for this pup. “Here, puppy! Where are you?” I feel like a madman. But then, I see it! This little furball hiding behind a bush. I scoop it up, and it’s wagging its tail like crazy. I’m like, “You little rascal!”

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