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About The Hague

Ain’t just bout the act, nah, it’s the hustle. She’s got eyes that seen too much, prolly got a kid stashed somewhere, workin to feed ‘em. Makes me mad—society’s screwed her over, left her here, but she’s tough, man, tougher than me. I ask, “What’s your deal?” She laughs, says, “Cash, baby, cash.” Fair enough. We chat, I fumble my words, 16 typos in my brain—nervs, ya know? “Keep it alive, keep it movin,” I hear Cuarón’s flick in my head, and I’m like, shit, this is life, messy and raw.

Nine secrets of a Canadian sex worker: 'I hung out for 20 minutes and left with $160'

Finally, I catch up to them near the old windmill on the Molenstraat. That windmill is iconic, man. I swear it’s got more stories than a pub on a Friday night. Anyway, I manage to round up my sheep, but I’m outta breath. I’m sweating like I just ran a marathon.

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