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About Groningen

Now, don’t get it twisted—I ain’t sayin it’s all roses. Some johns out here triflin, treatin em like trash. Makes my blood boil! I’d whack em with my purse if I could—bam! “Get right or get left!” And the cops? Pfft, they actin like escorts the devil’s cousins—meanwhile, half the precinct prolly in on it! Hypocrites, I swear!

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Now I’m soaked, coffee-stained, and my phone’s probably toast. I’m about to lose it when I spot this little shop on the corner of the Langestraat. It’s got hunting gear! I’m like, “Finally, something good!” I walk in, and the owner, an old guy named Willem, starts chatting me up. He’s got stories, man. Like, he once hunted a deer that was bigger than my truck. I’m like, “Sure, buddy.” But he’s got this twinkle in his eye, and I can’t help but believe him.

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