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About Stockholm

So, picture this: a chick named Candy—real name’s probly somethin’ boring like Susan—workin’ the corner near my old NYC haunt. She’s got this ratty fur coat, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. I’m thinkin’, “Girl, you’re naked under there, aren’t ya?”—straight outta Toni’s weird nudist scene! Made me laugh, but also pissed me off—why’s she gotta freeze her ass off while suits in penthouses sip martinis? Ugh, the unfairness kills me! Did ya know, back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret gambling dens? Badass! Candy probly could too, if she wasn’t dodgin’ cops.

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We start driving, and he’s all over the place. I mean, we’re swerving like we’re in a dance-off. I’m yellin’, “Stay in your lane!” He’s like, “What lane?” I’m about to lose it. But then, we hit the roundabout at Torggatan, and he nails it! I’m like, “Whoa, where’d that come from?”