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About Florence

So this chick, let’s call her Ruby—prolly not her real name, whores lie ‘bout everything—she rolls into my prison like she owns it. Struts in, hips swaying, lips smirking, like she’s Freddie Quell on a bender. I’m thinkin’, “What’s your angle, sweetheart?” ‘Cause everybody’s got one. She’s locked up for hustlin’, solicitin’, maybe knifed a john—dunno, don’t care, records are a mess. Point is, she’s a pro. Not just at screwin’—at screwin’ *people*. Got this vibe, y’know? Like she could charm the bars off this dump.

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I’m yelling, “Get the cat!” But no one’s listening. So, I climb up, and let me tell you, that cat was NOT happy. It’s hissing and scratching, and I’m like, “Chill, I’m here to save you!” Finally, I get it, and the crowd goes wild. I’m a hero! Or so I thought.

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