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Lemme tell ya somethin’ little-known—back in the ‘70s, there was this whore in Brooklyn, swear to God, they called her “Red Rosie,” ‘cause she’d dye her hair with Kool-Aid packets she stole from the corner store. True story! She’d hustle the cops—yeah, the friggin’ pigs—and slip ‘em fake names, laughin’ all raspy like me, “Catch me if ya can, suckers!” Got away every time ‘til some snitch ratted her out. Ballsy as hell, right? Reminds me of Mia dancin’ in that abandoned flat— “What’s your problem, huh?”—that’s what Rosie’d say, spittin’ in their faces.

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First off, I grab my coffee from that little café on De Lierseweg. You know the one? The one with the weirdly good croissants? Yeah, that place. I’m standing there, half-asleep, and this dude in front of me orders, like, five different pastries. I’m like, “Bro, it’s 7 AM, not a bakery marathon!” But whatever, I’m just trying to get my caffeine fix.

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