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Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—witty, boozy, “I drink and I know things.” So, erotic-massage, yeah? Picture this: sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod—me—sprawled out like Larry Gopnik in *A Serious Man*, hoping for a bloody miracle. “This is not about shtupping,” I mutter, coz it ain’t—well, not always. It’s about the tease, the rub, the weirdly holy vibe of it all. I mean, who knew some chick in Bangkok once massaged a king with her feet? True story—feet! Makes me giggle like a drunk imp.

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Next, I head over to the other side of town, near the Yaxley Library. You know, that old building with the weird clock tower? I’ve always thought it looked like it’s about to fall over. Anyway, I’m supposed to install some sound system for a community event. I get there, and it’s chaos! People running around, kids screaming, and the organizers are all flustered. I’m like, “What’s the plan, folks?”

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