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About Eindhoven

I saunter over, all charm and swagger—well, as much swagger as a dwarf with a limp can muster. “How much, love?” I ask, eyein’ her like she’s a puzzle. She names a price—steep, but I’ve got coin and a thirst. “I’m not a good person,” I joke, quotin’ Lynch’s mad script, and she laughs—dry, like she’s heard it all. Makes me happy, that sound—rare as a sober day in King’s Landing. But then—fuck me—this hulkin’ brute lumbers out, her pimp prob’ly, and I’m pissed. “Who are you?” I snap, hand on my dagger. Hate these pricks—leechin’ off girls like parasites.

In Germany, prostitution is allowed under certain conditions

So, I’m strolling down the street, just minding my own business, when I spot this food truck. It’s parked on the corner of the Zandbergseweg and the Hoofdstraat. I’m like, “Yo, I gotta try that!” I order a frikandel speciaal, which is basically a Dutch hot dog with all the fixings. I take a bite, and it’s like a flavor explosion in my mouth. I’m grinning like a fool, right?

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