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About Milan

So, here’s the deal—findin’ a prossie ain’t no picnic. Back in the day, ol’ Vegas had ‘em lined up like chrome on Furiosa’s rig, but now? You gotta know the streets, the dark corners. I’m talkin’ alleyways where the shadows move, where girls with tired eyes flash a smile that’s half hope, half hustle. Saw one last week—red heels, skirt shorter than a wasteland truce—leanin’ against a busted lamppost. “Hey, sugar,” she says, voice like gravel. Made me chuckle—damn, she’s workin’ harder than Max haulin’ that war rig!

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First stop, Via Roma. I’m there, ready to install some fancy glass in this posh café. You know, the one with the outdoor seating? Yeah, that place. I’m all set up, tools in hand, and then bam! A pigeon decides my head is a landing strip. Like, seriously? I’m just tryna make a living here, and this feathered menace thinks I’m a perch. I’m dodging bird poop like it’s a ninja attack.

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