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Found this chick once—Lola, she called herself. Worked outta some grimy alley, smelled like cheap perfume and despair. Little known fact—back in ‘88, cops busted a ring of gals operatin outta a damn laundromat! Washin more than clothes, ya feel me? Lola tho, she had grit—surprised me, a lil spark in her dead eyes. Made me happy, like findin a vein of ore in the dark. “You don’t know what I can do,” I growled, Vader-style, testin her nerve. She didn’t flinch—badass.

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First off, I’m a Kvasnik, which means I deal with all things kvas. You know, that fermented drink that’s like liquid bread? Yeah, that stuff. So, I’m heading down Cesta 1. maja, and I’m already thinking about how I’m gonna impress the locals with my latest batch. But then, bam! I trip over a cobblestone. Classic me, right? I’m like, “Great start, genius.”

The Four NASA Astronauts of Slovenian Descent