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About Amsterdam

Sexual-massage ain’t just handsy stuff, tho. Back in the ‘70s—think *Inherent Vice* vibes—massage parlors were fronts for all kinda wild shit. Cops’d raid ‘em, find more than oil bottles, if ya catch my drift. Makes me laugh, thinkin’ bout some poor sap payin’ $50 for a “happy endin’,” only to get busted mid-moan. “Far out, man,” as Doc’d say, but damn, what a buzzkill.

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So, I finally get to the office on the Markt. You know, the one with the cute little cafes and that fountain that’s always dry? Yeah, that one. I’m trying to shake off the pigeon drama, but then my boss, Mr. Van Dijk, calls me into his office. I’m thinking, “Oh great, what now?” Turns out, he wants me to present some financial report to the big wigs. Like, can’t a guy just have a normal day?

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