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Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—seein’ her, I notice the cracks, man. Not just the makeup-caked face, but the way she flinches at loud noises—johns get rough, I bet. Pisses me off, but she’s tough, tougher than me, maybe. “The past is a picture,” she says, another Moonrise nod, flickin’ ash. Past’s her pimp, present’s her cage—damn, that’s deep.

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So, I grab my drink and head to the market on the Markt. It’s buzzing, people everywhere. I’m dodging strollers and old folks like I’m in some kind of obstacle course. I spot this vendor selling fresh stroopwafels. I can’t resist. I buy one, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, outta nowhere, this kid runs into me, and my stroopwafel goes flying! I’m standing there, mouth agape, watching it land on the ground like it’s in slow-mo. I’m like, “Nooooo!”

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