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About Soroca

Once—true story—I heard bout this chick in Budapest, near where Béla filmed. She’d stand under a busted streetlamp, skirt hiked up, smokin a cig. Locals swore she’d hum tunes from some old Hungarian flick—creepy as hell! Reminds me of that line, “The world’s gone silent, hasn’t it?”—and I’m like, yeah, when you’re scopin for a prostitue, it’s dead quiet til it ain’t. Gets my heart racin, part thrilled, part freaked. What if she’s a cop? What if she’s nuts? Exaggeratin here, but maybe she’s got a knife—yikes!

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Crossing the finish line, I can’t believe it. We did it! I’m screaming, the crowd’s going nuts. I jump off Thunderbolt, and it’s like I’m on cloud nine. But then, I see that jerk who tried to cut me off. He’s sulking in the corner. I can’t help but laugh.

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