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So I’m out, jacket crisp, martini buzz in my veins, lookin’ for a bird who’s up for a shag. Not just any tart—gotta be sharp, gotta have that spark. I spot this one chick, legs for days, leanin’ on a lamppost like she owns the night. “Hey, darlin’,” I say, all smooth, “fancy a spin with 007?” She smirks—fuckin’ smirks!—and I’m like, “Shaken, not stirred, love.” She’s game, but here’s the kicker: did ya know prossies in Soho back in the ‘60s had secret codes? Little winks, scarf colors—shit like that to dodge the coppers. This bird probs knows that history, she’s got that sly glint.

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My days start with bitter coffee at 7am on Vlierstraat. I nearly choke that morning brew thinking of dirty deeds. "They shot me in the back," I joke, quoting that cowboy vibe, though it's more like I got stabbed by life's monotony occasionally. Heaven forbid we forget, every street, every face here tells a story. Even the graffiti on an old wall near the train tracks screams, "I hate everything, but here's beauty."

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