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About Breda

So, I’m out there, dodgin sketchy alleys—smells like piss and regret. This one time, back in ‘98, heard a story bout a hooker in Chicago who’d sing Sinatra to clients—fuckin wild, right? Little known fact: some of em got talents you’d never guess. I’m pissed tho—why’s it so hard to find one when ya need em? Like, c’mon, universe, throw me a bone! Then bam—there she is, leanin on a lamppost, all sass and cheap perfume. “Hey, sugar,” she purrs, and I’m like, “Well, hello, Clarice—kiddin, just kiddin.”

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Meeting wraps up, and I’m outta there. I need a breather. I stroll down to the park, the Griftpark, to clear my head. It’s beautiful, man. Trees everywhere, people chilling, kids playing. I sit on a bench, and for a moment, I forget about the chaos. Just me, the sun, and a couple of ducks quacking like they own the place.

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