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About New Plymouth

Angry? Yeah, ‘cause it’s a meat market—humans sold like bacon. Happy? Never, not with this crap. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d say it’s like tradin’ yer soul for a quickie. Quirky thought—wonder if they’d take my wood carvings as payment. Prolly not, damn shame. Lookin’ for one’s risky too—cops, STDs, or some psycho with a knife. “The dead don’t care,” Saul’d whisper—prolly true for the johns too. Funniest bit? Guys think they’re kings ‘til the clap hits. Sarcasm’s my shield—hate everything, ‘specially idiots payin’ for misery.

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Finally, I get to my shop on Cook Street. It’s a cozy little spot, but today it felt like a sauna. I’m sweating like a pig, and my first customer walks in. This lady, bless her heart, wants her heels fixed. But they’re like, ancient. I’m talking about shoes that probably walked the first steps of Howick. I’m thinking, “Lady, these are beyond saving.” But I smile and say, “Sure, I can work my magic.”

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