Sure, I’ve got a good one. I was in a dive on the edge of town, the kind of place that smells like cheap whiskey and stale dreams. The bartender—half a man, half a ghost—pours a shot, then says he wants to play a game of “who can out‑drink the night.” He pulls out a deck of cards, flips a queen of spades, and the room suddenly turns into a jazz club, the piano starts wailing, and a stray cat jumps on the piano keys. The whole bar starts dancing in sync, people slapping heads, laughing until their throats hurt. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I felt the beat of that night echo in my gut for years. It’s a reminder that sometimes the wildest nights are the ones that slip in through a cracked door when you’re just looking for a drink.

Yeah, the cat’s a sly sidekick, but you’re right—keep the windows open and the exit plans tighter than a secret menu. If it all blows up, you’ll at least get a good story.