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About Almere

So, I’m creepin’, heart’s poundin’, and I spot her—red lips, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a busted lamppost. “Come what may,” I mutter, like I’m Christian swoonin’ over Satine. I stroll up, all cool, like, “Yo, lady, need a shelf built?” She laughs—LAUGHS!—and I’m like, “Score!” Happy as hell, dude, ‘cause she didn’t ditch me. Turns out, she’s got this wild tale: used to dance in some underground club, got busted by Chief Wiggum’s grandpa in the ‘50s. Freaky, right?

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I help her pick up her stuff, and she’s all grateful. “You’re a good lad,” she says. I’m like, “Nah, just a shepherd trying to survive Steenbergen.” We chat for a bit, and she tells me about the history of the town. Did you know Steenbergen used to be a big deal in the Middle Ages? Yeah, I didn’t either.

Harold Steenbergen