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About Breda

Me, I’m chill tho—WALL-E’s my vibe. That lil’ guy? He’d roll past the red lights, beepin’ “Directive!”—too pure for this crap. But real talk, findin’ a prostitute ain’t no picnic. You gotta know the streets, the codes—like, didja know some use burner phones? Swap ‘em daily! Sneaky as Sith, they are. Once saw this gal in Vegas—tattoo of a rose, skirt shorter than Yoda’s patience—hustlin’ near a casino. She winked, I froze—fear, man, it hits ya! “What if she’s a cop?” Brain’s screamin’, heart’s racin’—anger next, at myself, for even thinkin’ it!

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Then, outta nowhere, my neighbor, Mrs. van Dijk, pops in. She’s this sweet old lady who always wants to chat. “Oh dear, what happened here?” she asks, eyes wide. I’m like, “Just a little flour explosion, no biggie.” She chuckles and hands me a bag of apples. “For your appeltaart!” she says. Bless her heart.

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