Four seasons, three regions, two eyes and a Zwangere Guy, the atom of a pentagonal element, behind him, a trail of destruction, in front, a herd of harmonious connections.
Guy crazier than a batshit, makes your blood chill and your joints shake. He’s the David Beekkant of the street soccer, he blows those horn and your mind is gone. The king of Scrabble of the Brussels Bass-class, the James Bond of the no-bullshit league. What you get is what you see.