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About Amsterdam

So, I’m thinkin’, why not? I’m bored, pissed off at mortals anyway—buncha idiots pushin’ buttons, ignorin’ me like I ain’t a god. Findin’ a prossie sounds like a laugh, a little chaos to stir the pot. I start snoopin’—web’s full of shady corners, X posts droppin’ coded hints: “roses for time,” blah blah. Little known fact? Back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—poetic, right? Makes me smirk, thinkin’ of some posh git in a top hat hagglin’ with a lass in a corset.

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Anyway, I finally make it to the job site. It’s on the outskirts, near the old train station. You know, the one that looks like it’s straight outta a movie? I’m pumped. I start blasting away at this rusty old fence. The sound? Pure music. But then, outta nowhere, my buddy Jeroen shows up. He’s always got some wild story. Today, he’s like, “Dude, you won’t believe what happened at the market!”

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