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I’m picturin’ it – me, drivin’ round, lookin’ for some action. Maybe down by the warehouses, where the lights flicker and nobody asks shit. Dr. Evil vibes – pinky up, “One million dollars.” – like I’m buyin’ the whole damn block. But real talk, it ain’t that fancy. Prolly just some chick named Tammy, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a streetlight. “What’s your story, hon?” I’d ask, all smooth, but inside I’m like, “This is nuts, what am I doin’?”

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I rush over to the shop, and there’s Taro, lookin’ like a lost puppy. I hand him his bow, and he’s all grateful. But then, the shop owner comes out, and he’s not happy. Apparently, Taro spilled ramen all over the floor. I’m tryin’ not to laugh, but it’s hard. The guy’s yellin’, and Taro’s just standin’ there, red as a tomato.

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