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About Amsterdam

But then—THEN—I spot her, leanin’ on a lamppost, all sass and red lipstick. “Why is the rum gone?” I mutter, ‘cause I’m parched and she’s trouble. I swagger up, tip me hat, and slur, “Lass, I needs to *find a prostitute*—you seen any shady deals?” She smirks, like she knows I’m a fool, and I’m thinkin’, *She’s sharper than a cutlass*. “What’s in it fer me, Cap’n?” she says, and I’m fumin’—cheeky wench! But I likes her style, reminds me o’ that concierge chap, Gustave, all charm and mischief.

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So, I’m fuming, right? I’m walking past the old church on the Markt, and I see this cute little café. I think, “Hey, coffee will fix this.” I order a cappuccino, and the barista, this dude with a wild beard, spills it all over the counter. I’m like, “Dude, really?” But he just laughs it off. I mean, I get it, we all have those days.

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