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About Auckland

Now, me, I’d overengineer it. Prob’ly build a drone—call it "Hooker Hawk"—to scout ‘em out. Efficiency, baby! But real talk, it’s sketchy as hell. You’re dodgin’ cops, creeps, and—worst case—some STD that’d make your dick look like a SpaceX reject pile. Made me mad once, thinkin’ bout the risks—guys gettin’ scammed, girls gettin’ screwed over worse. System’s broken, yo. “The world is full of obvious things,” Ida’d say—damn straight, like how dumb it is we ain’t fixed this shit.

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Anyway, I’m a N (whatever that means, right?), and I had a bunch of stuff to do. First stop? The local café on Queen Street. Best flat whites in town, no cap. I’m chugging my coffee, and boom! My mate Dave walks in. He’s all like, “Bro, did you hear about the rugby game last night?” I’m like, “Nah, what happened?” Turns out, the Waitara Rugby Club totally smashed it! I was stoked!

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