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About The Hague

Alright, I’m Ron Swanson, nose by trade—sniffin’ out bullshit, I reckon. I hate everything. Prostitutes? Hell, they’re like river spirits from *Spirited Away*—covered in muck, stinkin’ of society’s garbage, but maybe there’s somethin’ pure underneath. Maybe. Don’t care much. Saw one gal downtown last week, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last damn breath—kinda respect that grit. Reminds me of Chihiro, scrubbin’ floors, dealin’ with filth. “I’ve got spirit,” she’d say, if she weren’t a damn hooker.

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First call comes in. It’s this lady, totally frantic. “My cat’s stuck in a tree!” she yells. I’m like, “Lady, it’s not a fire, chill!” But nah, she’s convinced her cat, Mr. Whiskers, is gonna become a bird’s dinner. I mean, c’mon, it’s just a tree on de Veldkamp. I told her to grab some treats and shake the bag. Cats are like, “Oh, food? I’m coming down!”

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