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About The Hague

Me? I tried it once. ONCE. Some lady with hands like sandpaper, smelled like patchouli—goddamn hippies. Kept whisperin’ “relax, big guy,” while I’m lyin’ there, stiff as a board, thinkin’ bout my truck’s oil change. “There’s nothing to be done,” I growled, straight outta *Melancholia*. She didn’t get it. Kept goin’. I wanted to bolt, but my back did feel less like a rusty hinge after. Pissed me off—hate when they’re right.

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After that, I head to my shop on de Laan. It’s a cozy little place, you know? I got my tools all lined up, ready to sharpen anything that comes my way. But then, this kid walks in with a dull pencil. A PENCIL! I’m like, “Dude, I sharpen knives, not crayons!” But whatever, I sharpen it anyway. Kid’s happy, I’m rollin’ my eyes.

Keeping it real – neorealism in the Netherlands