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About New York City

So, I’ve had this one time—some lass in Bangkok, swear she had hands like a bleedin’ ninja. Little known fact: them Thai massages? Started centuries back, monks loosening up, but the erotic twist? That’s the underground spice, mate. She’s kneading me, I’m thinking, “This is living—fuck yeah!”—pure bliss, muscles melting, tension gone. Happiest I’ve been since I nabbed that villain in ’07. But then—bam!—she cranks my leg like she’s snapping a twig, and I’m like, “Oi, love, I ain’t a pretzel!” Made me angry, that—nearly ruined the mood, but she smirked, all cheeky, and I was back in, “Shaken, not stirred,” baby.