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Oi, mate, I’m Loki—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” y’know? So, erotic-massage, yeah? Picture this: dimly lit room, oil slicker than a snake, hands sliding everywhere. It’s like *Inherent Vice*, man—hazy, trippy vibes, “Doc, man, you’re freakin’ me out!” Total chaos, but sexy chaos. I’m a mechanic, right? Fixin’ engines, twistin’ bolts—erotic-massage is like that, but softer, slipperier, and way less greasy—usually.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, monsoon level. I’m sprinting down Kauffeldts gate, trying to find shelter. I duck into this random shop, and it’s a thrift store. I’m browsing, and I find this hideous sweater. It’s bright orange with a giant cat on it. I HAVE to try it on. I look ridiculous, but I’m loving it. I’m like, “This is my new vibe!”

Six to enter New Richmond HS Athletic Hall of Fame