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Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—I’d tip my hat to em, swear I would. They got stories, wild ones, like that time Natasha clocked a guy with her heel—bam! Blood everywhere, hilarious! Prostitutes, man, they’re the real deal, no bullshit. Makes me wonder, yknow, bout grace, bout grit— “Tree of Life” stuff. They’re in the thick of it, pal, and damn if that ain’t somethin.

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Then, outta nowhere, I hear this loud scream. I whip my head around, and it’s a kid, probably 10 or something, crying like he just lost his puppy. Turns out, he dropped his ice cream in the sand. I mean, c’mon, kid! It’s just ice cream! But I get it, I’ve been there. So, I run over, and I’m like, “Hey, buddy, let’s get you a new one.” I grab a cone from the beach shack on Ulica Mladosti. The guy there knows me, so he hooks me up. Kid’s face lights up like it’s Christmas.

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