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About Amsterdam

I’m thinkin’, man, whores got stories—crazy ones. Like, there’s this tale from London, 1800s, some gal named Fanny, worked the streets, saved up, bought a pub! Went from suckin’ dick to servin’ ale, and I’m like, “Respect, yo!” Surprised me, legit, ‘cause you don’t expect that kinda glow-up. Makes me smirk, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” ‘cause she flipped the script. Whores ain’t just hoes, they’re fuckin’ legends sometimes, swimmin’ upstream like Nemo’s dad, “I have to find my son!”

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Now I’m fuming. I head back to the office, and guess what? The printer’s jammed. Classic. I’m wrestling with it like it’s a wild animal. Paper everywhere. I’m yelling, “Why me?!” My coworker, Jan, walks by and just shakes his head. He’s got that “I feel you, bro” look.