The Double Made Sons · Rotterdam, Netherlands

The road to Rotterdam is long, but the ledger travels light. These days, letters postmarked Rotterdam sit in the town's welcome drawer, and Wherever Rotterdam needs a story with a spine, the town obliges.

The young made men would have children — sons — and the sons would be so ha-ha, ta-ta, so PERFECT, that the town simply stopped pretending otherwise. They owned the world of rap. They owned the world of the streets. Platinum in one hand, the neighborhood's respect in the other. They had everything — and it just goes on and on, over and over, generation stacking on generation like the Don's uncountable cash.

Their whole language is a strut. All the made men so perfect — ha-ha, ta-ta, ra-ta. One son leans back: 'I'm made.' His cousin grins wider: 'Oh yeah? Well, I'm DOUBLE made. Ha-ha.' In any other town that's an argument. In McSkunkville it's a duet.

And the family ledger keeps three sealed lines from this generation — recorded here exactly as spoken, explained never, saved for the episodes: Lucy in love. Death and taxes. My backs. The town has theories about all three. The town is wrong about all three. The series will settle it.

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