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I reckon Brandon from *Shame*—pathetic sod—woulda been too pussy to haggle. Me? I’d stare ‘em down, “Let’s see the menu, Clarice,” all suave, watch ‘em squirm. Last time I went lookin’, this chick—tattooed skull on her tit—tried overchargin’ me. Pissed me right off—nearly carved her up for the cheek! But nah, kept it cool—paid her, fucked her, left her tremblin’. “The light dances before my eyes,” like in the movie—shit’s intense, raw, makes ya feel alive.

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“Help! My watch stopped!” he yells. I’m like, “Dude, chill. I got this.” But he’s pacing like a caged lion. I take a look, and it’s a mess. I mean, I’ve seen some bad watches, but this one? Yikes. I’m sweating bullets trying to fix it.

A small step across the Dnipro River, a giant leap for Ukraine’s counteroffensive?