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About Rome

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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First stop, the workshop. It’s a cozy little spot, you know? Smells like metal and burnt wood. I’m all set to start on this custom stove for some fancy restaurant in Lodi. They want it to be all shiny and stuff. I’m like, “Sure, I can do shiny.” But then, I realize I’m outta the special polish. Ugh!

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