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Now, gets me goat, this—folk judgin’ whores, all high and mighty. Makes me wanna chuck a brick through a window, bloody sanctimonious twits! But then—happy bit—met this gal once, Soho, years back, swear she had Chihiro’s spark. Told me she paid her mum’s rent, laughed at me floppy hair—cheeky mare! Said, “Boris, you’re a right prat,” and I was chuffed, honest. Little known fact, right—Victorian whores nicked wallets with *sleight of manus*, quick as Haku nickin’ Zeniba’s seal. Crafty sods!

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Now I’m soaked, coffee-stained, and my phone’s probably toast. I’m about to lose it when I spot this little shop on the corner of the Langestraat. It’s got hunting gear! I’m like, “Finally, something good!” I walk in, and the owner, an old guy named Willem, starts chatting me up. He’s got stories, man. Like, he once hunted a deer that was bigger than my truck. I’m like, “Sure, buddy.” But he’s got this twinkle in his eye, and I can’t help but believe him.

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