It’s late March on a Saturday night in the French Quarter, and my mask wraps crooked around my mouth like a thin slice of raw pork, soggy with my own spit and sweat. The results of screaming for the last two hours. One tour down, one more to go. My left pocket is stuffed with tips, but my jaw aches and my throat is killing me. Telling stories for hours straight night after night in the quarter is never easy, but man, if you want a challenge try doing it with fabric strapped over your talking hole. Especially when you have to shout loud enough to make yourself heard over…