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Now, me, I’d overengineer it. Prob’ly build a drone—call it "Hooker Hawk"—to scout ‘em out. Efficiency, baby! But real talk, it’s sketchy as hell. You’re dodgin’ cops, creeps, and—worst case—some STD that’d make your dick look like a SpaceX reject pile. Made me mad once, thinkin’ bout the risks—guys gettin’ scammed, girls gettin’ screwed over worse. System’s broken, yo. “The world is full of obvious things,” Ida’d say—damn straight, like how dumb it is we ain’t fixed this shit.

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Finally, I make it to the office, and guess what? My coffee machine is broken. Ugh! I need my caffeine fix, or I’m basically a zombie. So, I hit up the nearest café on the corner of de Kuilen and the Markt. I order a cappuccino, and the barista is super friendly. I’m thinking, “Okay, maybe today won’t be so bad.” But then, I spill it all over myself. Great. Just great. Now I smell like burnt coffee.

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