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Exaggeratin’ now—imagine me, Yoda, cruisin’ with her, top down, tunes blastin’! “Quicker, easier, more seductive,” I’d say—sarcasm, my shield. Truth? Risky, it is—cops, creeps, STDs, yikes! Friend, you askin’ ‘bout this—why, huh? “You can’t hide—not from me!”—movie line fits. Spill it, you must! Prostitutes, they’re ghosts—there, then gone. Drivin’ past, I wonder—stories they got, heavy as a Star Destroyer.

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Go through the many galleries to see classy ladies crapping their cute panties, go down and dirty and fuck hardcore while being covered in shit, or masturbate and ride dicks until they explode Missing: Bodegraven.

Then, outta nowhere, I hear this loud noise. It’s a bunch of kids on bikes, racing down the Zwarteweg. They’re screaming and laughing, and I can’t help but smile. It’s like, that’s the spirit, right? But then one of them crashes into a lamppost. Ouch! I’m torn between laughing and checking if he’s okay. He gets up, brushes it off, and yells, “I’m fine!” Classic.

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