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Personal quirk? I’m yellin’ in my head the whole time—*faster, slower, harder, shit, don’t stop!*—but outside, I’m cool as ice, Gekko-style. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but once this gal in Vegas told me she massaged Elvis—fuckin’ Elvis!—and I believed her, ‘cause why not? Sexual-massage is chaos, messy, raw—kinda like life. “You’re lying to yourself,” Haneke’s ghost whispers from *Caché*. Maybe I am, but damn, it feels good. Greed is good, pal—get yours.

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After that, I decide to stroll down Cesta Zaloška. It’s a nice street, lined with trees and cute little shops. I’m just vibing, thinking about the mountains, when I hear this loud commotion. Turns out, there’s a street performer doing some crazy juggling act. I mean, dude was tossing knives! Like, what?! I’m half impressed, half terrified. I can’t even juggle oranges without dropping them.

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