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Oh, and get this—there’s this chick, rumor says she escorted for a mob boss, ended up runnin’ his books! Talk about climbin’ the ladder, heh! I’d be all, “D’oh! Why didn’t I think of that?” ‘Cept I’d probly screw it up, spill beer on the ledger. Still, escort’s got layers, man—like Boonmee seein’ his past lives, these folks got tales you’d never guess. “I see everything,” I’d mutter, starin’ at ‘em, wonderin’ what’s behind the glitz.

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So, I’m like, “Sure, mate, I got ya.” But then, I look at the clock. I’m already late for my appointment with Mrs. Thompson. She’s a sweet old lady, but man, she’s got a thing for her cat, Whiskers. I swear, that cat’s got more shoes than I do! Anyway, I rush over to her place on Kairanga Street, and guess what? She’s not even home! Just my luck, right?

Springlands fire destroys upholstery business, hotel with bar