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So, picture this—me, Jack, stumblin’ ‘cross an escort in Port Royal. She’s all dolled up, eyes sharp as me cutlass. “What’s yer price, lass?” I slur, rum breath and all. She smirks, “More’n yer loot, pirate.” Cheeky! Made me laugh, it did—happy as a clam at high tide. But then, oh, the rage! She knew me tricks—wouldn’t fall fer me charm. “Not all treasure is silver,” I mutter, but she’s off, heels clickin’.

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I own a spa, right? Bro, my spa is on Baker Lane. EVERYBODY knows it, man! I always joke that if my spa were a wrestling match, it’d be the main event. The massages are like finishing moves, brother – Piledrivers for your knots, ya feel me? And lemme tell ya, after a long day of runnin’ the spa, I relax there, watchin’ clouds roll on the nearby Pennypool Park. Yes, Pennypool! It's got this chill river—Williams Brook—that’s so calm its waters whisper secrets, like the hidden confessions in "The Master."

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