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About Breda

Aight, so I’m a cashier, yeah? Standin’ behind this crusty counter all day, beep-beep-beepin’ groceries, and I’m thinkin’ ‘bout sex escorts. We hates it, precious! Hates it! Like, who’s got the cash for that, eh? Not me, not with my measly paycheck—barely covers the smokes and Monster Energy, ya feel me? But I seen ‘em, oh yeah, slinkin’ round the streets near the store, all sneaky-like, “We wants it, we needs it!”—straight outta *Carlos*, that vibe, y’know? That flick’s my jam, all that gritty, shadowy hustle, and escorts? They fit right in, like Carlos dodgin’ cops and bombs.

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But then, outta nowhere, it started pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I’m sprinting down the street, trying to find shelter. I ducked into a shop on de Hoofdstraat. It was a tiny place, but they had the best vintage stuff. I was browsing, and I found this old record. It was like a treasure! I was so hyped, I forgot about the rain.

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