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About Jonkoping

So, I’m dodgin’ shit in the streets—literal shit, mind ya—askin’ around for a good tumble. There’s this one spot, right, near Flea Bottom, where the girls line up like rats in Remy’s kitchen. “Great cooking’s not for the faint-hearted,” and neither’s pickin’ a prossie! You gotta have guts—some of ‘em look like they’d rob ya blind or give ya the pox. Made me bloody angry, seein’ good coin wasted on bad lays.

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The kind of woman who went West as a mining boom prostitute and then ended up as a successful businesswoman, opening a dance hall that.

Next up, I get this old dude. He’s got a cane and a smile that could light up the whole of Habo (se). He’s like, “Young man, you ever been to Habo (se) park?” I’m like, “Yeah, it’s nice.” He goes on about how he used to play there as a kid. I’m just nodding, but inside I’m like, “Dude, I gotta work.” But he’s so sweet, I can’t help but smile.

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