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About The Hague

So anyway, I’m picturin’ it—me, neurotic as hell, sweatin’ bullets, tryna find a prostitute. Maybe I’d hit up the web—X posts, sketchy links, the works. “Who’s got the goods?” I’d mutter, scrollin’ like a maniac. Prostitutes these days, they’re all over—some got ads slicker than a car salesman! Makes me laugh, like, “Pretty, pretty good hustle!” But then I’d get paranoid—cops? Scams? “I’m gonna die!” I’d yelp, channelin’ Malik’s prison panic. “The ghosts are comin’!”—another “A Prophet” gem. I’d be jumpin’ at shadows, swearin’ the Yakuza’s tailin’ me.

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Finally, I get my stroopwafel, and oh man, it’s heavenly. I’m sitting there, just enjoying life, when I get a call. It’s my boss. He’s like, “We need those estimates ASAP!” I’m like, “Dude, I’m literally eating the best stroopwafel of my life right now!” But of course, I can’t say that. So, I rush back to the site, half-eaten stroopwafel in hand.

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