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About Naples

Alright, so findin’ a prostitute—helluva task, right? Everybody lies, that’s the damn motto. You think you’re gettin’ some sweet deal, but nah, it’s all smoke and mirrors. Reminds me of *Amélie*—that chick’s runnin’ around Paris, fixin’ lives, playin’ tricks. “I’m no one’s little weasel,” she’d say, but prostitutes? They’re weasels for cash, man. Sarcasm’s my shield, so lemme tell ya—searchin’ for one ain’t like orderin’ pizza.

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First off, I’m heading down Via della Storia, and I’m already late. Typical. I’m a carpenter, not a magician, but I’m trying to make it to this job on time. I’m hustling, dodging tourists like they’re pigeons. Seriously, these folks don’t know how to walk! They’re all stopping to take pics of the vineyards. I mean, yeah, they’re beautiful and all, but c’mon! I got wood to work with!

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