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About Florence

So, here’s the scoop—findin’ one’s easy if ya got cash. Streets, bars, sketchy alleys—pick yer poison. Me? I’d rather wrestle a bear than pay for that. Hate the hustle, the fake smiles, the stink of desperation. Reminds me of Saul, draggin’ corpses, mutterin’, “I’ve seen the end.” Little fact—back in ‘80s Vegas, pimps ran ads in phonebooks. Yellow pages, right next to plumbers. World’s gone soft since then—now it’s apps, dark web bullshit. Surprised me, honestly—thought folks’d stick to street corners.

In today’s world you can find pretty much anything with a smartphone.

After that chaos, I’m like, “I need food.” So, I hit up this little trattoria on Via Garibaldi. The pasta? To die for. I order the tagliatelle al ragù, and it’s like a hug in a bowl. I’m slurping it down, and this waiter comes over. He’s all smiles, and I’m thinking, “This guy gets it.” But then he spills water all over my lap! I’m soaked! I’m laughing, but inside I’m like, “Really, dude?!”

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