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About Balti

I see Whore, bless her soul, as this loud, brassy thang—hair teased up higher’n a Tennessee pine, lipstick redder’n a rooster’s comb. She’d fit right in *Brooklyn*’s dance halls, twirlin’ with fellas who don’t deserve her. “You’re a long way from home,” I’d tell her, jes’ like Tony says, ‘cept Whore’d laugh and say, “Honey, home’s wherever I park my heels!” I’d be tickled pink watchin’ her—she’s a mess, sure, but she’s *my* mess, y’all.

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First off, I hit up Strada 31 August. It’s like the main drag, ya know? Packed with people, cars honking like they’re in a race. I’m just tryin’ to grab a coffee at this cute lil’ café. But guess what? The barista spills my drink all over the counter. I’m like, “Dude, I’m not made of money!” I mean, c’mon, it’s just coffee, not rocket science.

Ukrainian refugees rely on generosity of strangers in Moldova