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About Florence

So, we haggles—me hissin’, her laughin’. “Ten quid,” she says. I’m like, *you wanna play a game?*—cos I ain’t got ten! Gave her five, an’ she’s all, “Fine, ya cheap git.” We goes round a corner—dark, like Gotham’s underbelly. She’s quick, no muckin’ about—prossies don’t waste time, see? Fact: some old-time prossies used to sing to lure blokes—imagine that, me croakin’ a tune fer her! Hah! *Let’s put a smile on that face*—she didn’t laugh, tho, stony as Batman.

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After that chaos, I’m like, “I need food.” So, I hit up this little trattoria on Via Garibaldi. The pasta? To die for. I order the tagliatelle al ragù, and it’s like a hug in a bowl. I’m slurping it down, and this waiter comes over. He’s all smiles, and I’m thinking, “This guy gets it.” But then he spills water all over my lap! I’m soaked! I’m laughing, but inside I’m like, “Really, dude?!”

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