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Guy at the door, greasy mustache, smirkin’. Wanted to punch him square. “Ten bucks, big man,” he says. I hate payin’ for sin. Walked in anyway, curiosity’s a bastard. Red lights, velvet curtains – tacky as hell. Felt like a circus for perverts. Girl comes up, winks, “Hey, sugar.” I hate winkin’. Told her, “I’m here for the steak.” She laughed. No steak, just lies. Made me wanna burn it down.

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Then, I head to my workshop on Rue de l'Église. I’m all pumped to craft some stoves. I love it, man. The smell of metal, the sound of welding. But as soon as I walk in, I see it. My tools! All over the place! Like a tornado hit. I’m like, “Who’s been messin’ with my stuff?” Turns out, my buddy Jean thought it’d be funny to prank me. Not cool, Jean. Not cool.

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