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I’m pissed, too—why’s it gotta be so sketchy? Find a prostitute, sure, but then what? You’re dodgin’ cops, creepers, and—who knows?—maybe she’s got a gang waitin’ to jack your wallet. “Witness me!” she yells, and I’m like, “Witness what? My bank account dyin’?” It’s nuts! But then, okay, I’m kinda thrilled—danger’s the spice, right? Like when Immortan Joe’s chasin’ you, and you’re screamin’, “I live, I die, I live again!”—that rush, man, it’s sick.

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So, I finally get to my workshop on Kossuth Lajos utca. It’s a cozy little spot, filled with the smell of wood and metal. I’m ready to get to work, but then I realize I forgot my tools at home. Classic me, right? I’m like, “Great, just great.” So, I hop on my bike and pedal like a madman back to my place. I’m sweating bullets, thinking about how I’m gonna explain this to my boss.

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