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About Bari

We haggle—$50, $60, whatever—she’s actin’ like she’s doin’ me a favor. Fun fact: in Amsterdam, they got unions for this shit. Here? It’s a free-for-all, and I’m dodgin’ cops like I dodge clinic duty. She’s all, “No kissing,” and I’m like, “Fine, I’m not Ritchie anyway.” *Tenenbaums* ref, duh—nobody gets it. Makes me happy, tho, ‘cause I’m a smug prick. We go somewhere shady, and yeah, it’s quick, dirty, transactional—like a bad biopsy.

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Then, outta nowhere, this guy, Marco, raises his hand. He’s like, “Dude, we need to talk about the pests!” And I’m like, “Pests? Really? I thought we were discussing my late arrival!” But I roll with it. We dive into this whole pest control debate. I’m trying to keep it light, cracking jokes about how I’d rather deal with pests than traffic. They laugh, but I’m still stressed.

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