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About Florence

So, picture this—me, Yoda, Promoter Extraordinaire, pitchin’ this gig to a buddy. “Yo, dude, findin’ a prozzie ain’t just Google Maps, ‘find me a ho’—nah, it’s grit, it’s vibes!” Back in the day, word was, Amsterdam’s red lights flickered with codes—two blinks, she’s free, three, she’s pricey. Little known fact, that! Made me happy, ‘cause who don’t love a secret signal? But angry too—damn, why’s it gotta be so shady? Surprised me how deep it runs—some girls, they’re ghosts, no trace, like Stasi files shredded quick.

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Finally, I get to the depot on Via Garibaldi. My team’s already there, looking like they’ve seen a ghost. Turns out, our main truck broke down. Like, seriously? The one we need for the big delivery to Malpensa? Ugh! I could feel my blood boiling. I’m pacing around, trying to keep it together.

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