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About Florence

So – escort. Not the car, nah. I mean the *ladies*. Or dudes, whatever. Paid company, right? You’re lonely. Or bored. They roll up – BAM. Like Llewelyn Moss. Dodgin’ trouble. But with heels. And lipstick. I saw this gal once. In Reno. Escort gig. Swear she had eyes – like a hawk. Could spot a creep. From a mile off. Made me laugh. “Call it, friendo!” I yelled. She didn’t get it. Pissed me off – c’mon, watch the damn movie!

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Then I hit up the local café on Via della Libertà. Best cappuccino in town, no cap. I’m sippin’ my drink, and this old guy starts chatting me up. He’s like, “You know, back in my day…” and I’m thinking, “Here we go.” But he’s actually got some wild stories about Ponsacco. Apparently, there was a huge festival here in the ‘80s. People dancing in the streets, music blasting. I’m like, “Where’s my time machine?”

Certaldo and Mobilieri Ponsacco challenge each other in the Eccellenza play-outs