Charlotte Ceriale Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Genoa

So, findin’ a prostitute—helluva task. I ain’t talkin’ the shiny Hollywood crap. Real world’s messy, smells like cheap whiskey and regret. You start askin’ around, folks clam up. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Ron.” Liars. Every damn one. Pisses me off—makes me wanna punch a tree. But I dig deeper, like Lenny huntin’ his wife’s killer. “Remember Sammy Jankis,” he says. I say, “Remember that shady bar on 5th.”

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

After that, I head over to the market on Via Garibaldi. It’s packed! I love the vibe, but man, it’s like a sardine can. I’m tryin’ to squeeze past this old lady with a cart full of tomatoes. She’s takin’ her sweet time, and I’m like, “Lady, I got places to be!” Finally, I get past her, and boom! I trip over a crate. Tomatoes everywhere! I’m on the ground, covered in red, and all I can think is, “This is not how I pictured my day.”

An Operator at Heart: John Ceriale