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About Wroclaw

I roll up, see this chick—red heels, smokin’ a cig. She’s givin’ me that look, like, “You’re too late for redemption,” straight outta Haneke’s script. I’m hyped, tho—heart’s pumpin’ like I’m in the ring. I saunter over, all smooth, sayin’, “Hey, baby, I must break you.” She smirks, tosses the cig, goes, “Fifty bucks, champ.” I’m like, damn, inflation’s real! Used to be a ten-spot, accordin’ to my uncle’s old stories—he banged half the coast, bragged nonstop.

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But then, I see this group of tourists. They’re lost, looking at a map like it’s a treasure map or something. I can’t help but chuckle. I mean, Kostrzyn isn’t that big! Just ask someone! So, I stroll over and give ‘em directions. They’re super grateful, and I’m like, “No prob, just don’t get lost again, alright?”

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