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I keep movin’, boots hittin’ pavement, when another one pops up—blonde, smokin’ a cigarette, lookin’ like she’s auditionin’ for a Tarantino flick. “You look lonely, sugar,” she says. Lonely? I’m happier than a pig in mud alone, ya harpy. “I’m gonna scalp ya if ya don’t scram,” I mutter, channelin’ Aldo. She blinks, confused. Good. Hate when they don’t get it. Did ya know, in old France, they branded prostitutes with a fleur-de-lis? Marked ‘em like cattle. Brutal, but kinda badass.

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So I grab my jacket and head out. The weather? Classic Dutch. One minute it’s sunny, the next it’s pouring. I’m dodging raindrops like I’m in some weird game. I get to the market, and it’s packed! Like, where did all these people come from? I swear, I saw at least three people with the same beanie. Is that a thing now?

Warning for blue-green algae in warming waters; Record streak of summer days in June