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So, I’m scopin’ the scene, right? Red lights flicker, heels clickin’—fuckin’ electric! Reminds me of Monty’s last night—edgy, raw, desperate. I spot her—legs for days, smirk like she owns me already. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, smooth as silk. She laughs—bloody hell, that’s rare! Most girls here don’t crack a smile. Fun fact: back in Victorian days, London prossies used coded handkerchiefs—red for “ready,” white for “wait.” Bet she don’t know that, eh?

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First off, I’m rollin’ down the Hoofdweg, and I swear, I see this old dude trying to cross the street. He’s like a turtle on a mission, man. I’m thinkin’, “C’mon, bro, you got this!” But nah, he’s takin’ his sweet time. I almost honked, but then I remembered my mom’s voice in my head, “Patience, my son.” So, I chill. But then, outta nowhere, a bike zooms past me! Like, dude, where’s the fire? I’m just tryna enjoy my morning coffee, ya know?

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