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About Napier

So, I’m creepin’, heart’s poundin’, and I spot her—red lips, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a busted lamppost. “Come what may,” I mutter, like I’m Christian swoonin’ over Satine. I stroll up, all cool, like, “Yo, lady, need a shelf built?” She laughs—LAUGHS!—and I’m like, “Score!” Happy as hell, dude, ‘cause she didn’t ditch me. Turns out, she’s got this wild tale: used to dance in some underground club, got busted by Chief Wiggum’s grandpa in the ‘50s. Freaky, right?

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Then, outta nowhere, the fire alarm goes off! I’m like, “Seriously? Right now?” We’re all standing outside, and I’m trying to keep it together. I mean, I’m a psychologist, not a firefighter! I’m sweating bullets, thinking, “What if this is a real fire? What if I have to save my client?” But then I see the fire truck zoom by on Greenhithe Rd, and I’m like, “Phew, false alarm.”

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