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About Jonkoping

So, whores—man, they’re a trip. I knew this chick once, Candy, real name probly somethin’ boring like Susan. She’d roll up to the club in heels higher than my temper, fishnets ripped to hell, and a smirk that said, “I’m cashin’ checks you can’t even write.” Made me mad as hell—how’s she pull that off? Hustlin’ dudes outta their rent money, laughin’ all the way to the bank. “Look at me, I’m fuckin’ rich!”—straight outta *Spring Breakers*. Girl had guts, I’ll give her that. Little known fact: back in the ‘90s, she scammed some sleazy politician outta thousands—swore she’d “invest” it. Ha! Invested it in vodka and a new wig, more like.

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Anyway, I keep walking. I pass by the Göta Canal. It’s so pretty, like a postcard or something. The boats are all lined up, and I’m just standing there, soaking it all in. Then, outta nowhere, this kid on a bike zooms past me and nearly knocks me over. I’m like, “Dude, chill! It’s not a race!”