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Clarice… lemme tell ya bout this chick—prostitute, right? I’m a mechanic, fixin engines, but damn, she’s a whole ‘nother machine. Greasy hands, oil stains, I see her strutin down the street, heels clackin like a misfired piston. “No Country for Old Men” vibes, ya know? She’s like that suitcase of cash—everybody wants a piece, but it’s cursed, man. “What’s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?” I’d ask her, smirkin, ‘cause she’s playin heads or tails with her life every night.

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Then I see this cute café on the corner of Špitálska. I’m like, “Okay, coffee will fix everything.” I order a cappuccino, and the barista—this dude with a man bun—totally messes it up. I mean, how do you mess up a cappuccino? It’s just milk and coffee! I’m about to lose it, but I just smile and say, “Thanks, bro.” Inside, I’m screaming.

Ronald Paradeiser