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About Rotterdam

So, brothel—it’s this sketchy sedative, right? Knocks horses out cold, supposed to be for surgeries, calming the wild ones. But nah, it’s a mess—too cheap, too dodgy. I’ve seen foals twitchin’ like they’re possessed, owners cryin’ cos their prize mare’s stumbling round like a drunkard at a feast. Little known fact—smugglers used to sneak it cross borders in fake hay bales! Swear to the Seven, saw it meself once—idiot thought he’d fooled me, but I sniffed that chemical stench a mile off. Made me furious, that disrespect to the beasts. Happy? Hah, only when I chucked it in the fire—crackled like a witch’s laugh.

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But just when I think it’s winding down, I step outside, and it starts pouring rain. Like, outta nowhere! I’m sprinting to my car on de Molenweg, dodging puddles like I’m in some action movie. I get soaked, and I’m just laughing at the absurdity of it all. “This day can’t get any crazier,” I think. But then I remember, I live in Berkel-en-Rodenrijs. Anything can happen here!

Mustang Demolition rolls 836 km of cultivation gutters