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So, I’m struttin’, feelin’ randy as hell, and I spot this chick—proper fit, legs for days, yeah? She’s givin’ me the eye, like, “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!”—y’know, that poetic jazz from the film. I’m like, “Groovy, baby, let’s shag!” But—plot twist—she’s dodgy, man! Charges me double, says it’s “inflation, love.” Inflation my arse! Made me mad as a hatter—nearly lost my mojo there.

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Lacombe’s secrets? You betcha. There’s a forgotten little alley near Oak Street with local legends graffiti scribbled all over. Some say it carries the echoes of lost hopes and dreams – real heavy stuff, but also strangely comforting.

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