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About Rome

Once—swear to God—saw this dame, heels clickin’, smokin’ a cig. Looked tough, but her eyes? Tired, y’know? Wanted to say, “C’mon, kid, you’re better than this.” Didn’t—chickened out. Surprised me, how it stuck. Findin’ ‘em’s easy—trick is seein’ ‘em, really seein’. Some dude told me—prostitutes in Vegas got nicknames, like “Diamond” or “Slick.” Cracked me up—sounds like a damn movie.

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First up is Marco. Kid’s 17, thinks he’s the next F1 champ. He hops in the car, all cocky. I’m like, “Dude, chill. You gotta learn to drive before you can drift.” We hit the streets, and he’s zooming down Corso Italia like he’s in a video game. I’m gripping the “oh crap” handle, praying we don’t end up in the canal.

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