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Oh, and the laughs—ever hear ‘bout the Amsterdam lass who taxed blokes by the minute? Stingy sod complained, she goes, “Time’s money, love!”—cracked me up. Sarcasm’s their shield, mate, and I dig it. Makes ‘em human, not just a quick shag. So yeah, whores—rough, real, a bit like me after a brawl. “Shaken, not stirred,” but they shake the world, don’t they? Bloody legends.

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Finally, I get to the job site. It’s on the Industrieweg, and let me tell ya, it’s a whole vibe. Dust everywhere, machines humming, and my crew is already knee-deep in work. I grab my gear, ready to blast some surfaces clean. But then, bam! My compressor decides to take a nap. Like, seriously? You had one job! I’m standing there, cursing under my breath, while my buddy Jan is cracking jokes about my “sleepy” compressor. Ha-ha, real funny, Jan.

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