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But—grrr—some crap pisses me off! These shady pimps, lurkin’ like Gestapo, watchin’ every move. One tried shakin’ me down—extra 1,000 rubles “protection fee.” Protection? Ha! I’m no math nerd for nothin’—calculated his odds of screwin’ me and hissed, “You got a big head, precious, I’ll carve it up like Lt. Aldo carves swastikas!” He backed off—coward! Surprised me, tho—thought he’d fight dirtier. Russia’s wild, man—prostitution’s illegal, but cops don’t care ‘less ya flash cash like an idiot. Fun fact—back in Soviet days, they called ‘em “night butterflies.” Poetic, huh? Now it’s just “devochki”—girls. Gritty, raw, real.

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So, we’re working hard, and I’m in the zone. Then, I hear this commotion down the street. It’s the Markt, and there’s a festival or something. I’m like, “Dude, I need a break!” So, I sneak away for a sec. I’m walking down the Kerkstraat, and it’s packed! Food stalls, music, people dancing. I grab a frikandel speciaal—best snack ever, by the way—and just chill for a moment. Life’s good, right?

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