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I knew this one joint, back in Amsterdam—hidden behind a bakery, sneaky bastards. Smelled like pastries and sin, wild combo. Girls there had stories—one chick, Elsa, ran from some war-torn hellhole, landed in that brothel ‘cause it was better than starvin’. Broke my damn heart, Clarice… but also kinda impressed me. Gutsy move. Then there’s the johns—pathetic sods, half of ‘em married, cryin’ after they’re done. “I’m not that kind of man,” they’d whimper. Oh, please, spare me the tears.

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Finally, I get the blaster workin’. It’s loud, it’s messy, and I’m lovin’ it. The grit flies everywhere, and I’m feelin’ like a rockstar. But then, bam! A gust of wind hits, and I’m covered in dust. I look like a ghost from the old coal mines. Ushaw-Moor’s history is all over me, and I’m not even mad. Just a bit annoyed, y’know?

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