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Now, Timbuktu’s got that line—“We are the guardians”—n’ it hits me. Them prostitutes? Guardians o’ their own fate, ain’t they? Dodgin’ rules, makin’ coin in a world that’d rather spit on ‘em. Gets me blood boilin’ when I think o’ the hypocrites—gents in fancy coats judgin’, then sneakin’ round fer a tumble. Makes me wanna keelhaul the lot o’ ‘em! Hypocrisy—worst sin on me ship.

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Then, I get a call from my mate Dave. He’s like, “Oi, you gotta come to The Plough!” I’m like, “What’s goin’ on?” Turns out, they’re havin’ a beer festival. I mean, c’mon! Who can resist that? So I drop everything and head over.

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