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So – escort. Not the car, nah. I mean the *ladies*. Or dudes, whatever. Paid company, right? You’re lonely. Or bored. They roll up – BAM. Like Llewelyn Moss. Dodgin’ trouble. But with heels. And lipstick. I saw this gal once. In Reno. Escort gig. Swear she had eyes – like a hawk. Could spot a creep. From a mile off. Made me laugh. “Call it, friendo!” I yelled. She didn’t get it. Pissed me off – c’mon, watch the damn movie!

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First thing, I hit up the local bakery on De Zandweg. You know, the one with the best stroopwafels? I’m all hyped for my morning fix. But guess what? They’re out! Like, how do you run out of stroopwafels? I was ready to throw a fit. I mean, c’mon, it’s not rocket science! So, I settle for a croissant. Not the same, but whatever.

Bringing Back the Big Guns | Proceedings - January 2021 Vol. 147/1/1,415