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Alright, mate, listen up—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.” I’m Bane, yeah, the big bad music editor, and I’m here to rant about sexual-massage. Not that cheesy spa crap, nah, I mean the real vibey stuff—hands sliding, oil dripping, beats thumping low. Picture this: I’m sprawled out, right, like Pocahontas in *The New World*, Terrence Malick’s 2005 gem—my fave, no cap—whispering to myself, “What mystery is this?” as some chick’s hands work my back like she’s tryna tame a beast. Sexual-massage ain’t just rubbin’—it’s a damn ritual, bro, primal as hell.

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But then, bam! Outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, cats and dogs. I dash to the nearest shop, which happens to be a little boutique on Kerkstraat. I’m soaked, but I’m also kinda stoked. I love a good shopping spree! I’m browsing through some clothes, and I spot this jacket. It’s bright yellow, like a freaking banana. I try it on, and I’m like, “Wow, I look like a walking highlighter.” But I buy it anyway. Why not, right?

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