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Lemme tell ya, I seen some shit. Back in Miami, ‘80s vibe, coke flowin’ like rivers, escorts were queens, right? Not just arm candy—nah, they ran the game. One chick, Maria, swear she had a scarface of her own—knife fight with some pimp, took his pinky as a trophy. Little known fact, bro: some escorts back then carried switchblades, hid ‘em in garters—say hello to my little friend, cabrón! Made me laugh, picturin’ her flippin’ it out mid-date, like, “Pay up, sucker!”

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First off, I hit the streets of Via G. Marconi. The sun was blazing, like, “Hey, you! Get ready to sweat!” I’m walking, minding my own biz, when I spot this cute little café. You know the one, right? Bar Pasticceria da Franco. I’m like, “Gotta get my caffeine fix!” So I order a cappuccino, and the barista, this dude with a killer mustache, spills it all over the counter. I’m like, “Bro, really?!” But he just laughs it off. I mean, who spills coffee in Italy?

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