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About Breda

So, last week, I’m prowlin’—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—and I spot this bird, all fishnets and attitude. Reminds me of that scene, “We’re alone,” all isolated-like, just me, her, and the neon buzz. I’m thinkin’, “Mate, she’s either a jackpot or a fuckin’ setup.” Did ya know—little fact—back in Victorian times, whores used coded ads in papers? “French lessons,” my arse—sneaky bastards. Anyway, I’m chattin’ her up, heart poundin’—fuckin’ thrilled, yeah? But then—bam—some geezer rolls up, all aggro, demandin’ cash. Pissed me right off! I’m like, “Oi, cunt, I ain’t your ATM!”

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Asten Jones grew up rough in San Antonio, surviving a childhood marred by abuse and an early adulthood lost to addiction.

Then, I bump into this dude, Jan, from the local café. He’s all like, “Hey, you gotta try my new coffee blend!” I’m like, “Sure, why not?” So, I grab a cup from him at de Markt. OMG, it was like liquid gold! I’m talking about a caffeine high that could launch a rocket. I’m buzzing, feeling like I can conquer the world.

Ronald W. Van Asten