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Found this chick once—Lola, she called herself. Worked outta some grimy alley, smelled like cheap perfume and despair. Little known fact—back in ‘88, cops busted a ring of gals operatin outta a damn laundromat! Washin more than clothes, ya feel me? Lola tho, she had grit—surprised me, a lil spark in her dead eyes. Made me happy, like findin a vein of ore in the dark. “You don’t know what I can do,” I growled, Vader-style, testin her nerve. She didn’t flinch—badass.

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Then, I’m walking past the flower shop on the corner of de Zwarteweg. The smell of tulips hits me like a freight train. Hillegom is famous for its flowers, right? I can’t help but smile. But then I see this kid, probably 10 or something, crying over a wilted bouquet. I’m like, “Dude, it’s just flowers!” But then I remember my own childhood. I had a pet goldfish named Bubbles. When he went belly up, I was a wreck. So, I get it.

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