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About Florence

Oi mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as fuck, “shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m a carpenter now, yeah? Hammerin’ nails, sawin’ wood, all that jazz. But let’s talk real shit—findin’ a prostitute. Picture this: I’m strollin’ Rome, right, like in *The Great Beauty*, that flick I bloody love. “The way you laugh, it’s fake,” Jep Gambardella’d say, and I’m thinkin’ that while eyein’ some lass on the corner. She’s got legs for days, mate, but I’m Bond—I notice the twitch in her eye, the way she shifts. Tells me she’s new, probs scared shitless.

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Next, I decide to stroll down to the Marina Piccola. The view of the Bay of Naples? Wow. Just wow. But then, I see this group of kids playing soccer. They’re kicking the ball around, and I’m thinking, “Man, I miss playing.” So, I join in. Big mistake. I’m running around, trying to keep up, and I trip over my own feet. Classic. The kids are laughing, and I’m just lying there, like, “Yeah, I meant to do that.”

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