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But ugh, the stench—piss an’ desperation—gets me mad. Ever smelled a brothel at 3 a.m.? Like regret had a baby with stale ale. Still, I’m chuffed for the hustlers—survivin’, laughin’ in fate’s face. One time, heard this tale—Victorian London, yeah? Lass named Fanny ran her own joint, made bank, flipped off the coppers. Total legend! “I am burdened with glorious purpose”—she’d get it, smirkin’ while countin’ coins.

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Then, I get a text from my buddy, “Let’s hit up the Markt!” I’m like, “Sure, why not?” So I head over there, and it’s packed. I mean, Drachten’s not huge, but today it feels like the whole town’s out. I grab some fries from the stand—best fries in town, no cap. But then, I see this guy I know, let’s call him “Jeroen.” He’s always got some wild story.

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