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About Almere

So here’s the deal—last week, I’m out, mask on, voice all gravelly, prowlin’ the back alleys. Not for trouble, nah, just curious, y’know? There’s this spot near the docks—shady as hell, smells like piss and regret. Word is, that’s where they hang. And boom, there she is—red heels, fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig like she owns the night. I’m thinkin’, “She’s a copy of a copy, but damn, she’s real.” Kinda poetic, right? Like in the movie, “What’s authentic anyway?”—makes ya wonder if she’s playin’ a role or livin’ it.

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After that, I decide to hit up the local shops. Asten’s got some cool little boutiques, right? I pop into this one on de Kerkstraat. The owner, she’s super nice, but her prices? Yikes! I mean, I love a good sweater, but I’m not made of money! I’m trying to haggle, but she’s not budging. I’m like, “C’mon, it’s Asten! We’re all friends here!”

Obituary for Butch Van Asten