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So, prostitute—street crawler, right? Sells flesh for coin, sneaky an’ sad. Heard this tale once—true stuff, swear it! Some lass in old London, 1800s, worked the docks. Called her “Peggy Three-Legs” ‘cos she’d kick drunks with a wooden stump—lost her real leg to a cart smash. Fierce, she was! Made me grin, thinkin’ of her bashin’ heads, but then—ugh—we hates it! Stinks of desperation, don’t it? Like “Under the Skin,” all hollow eyes an’ fake smiles. “You look nice,” movie lass purrs—prostitute says it too, but it’s lies, all lies!

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We hit up this little spot on Via Garibaldi. I order a pistachio gelato, and the kids go wild for strawberry. But then, disaster strikes! One of the kids, little Marco, trips and spills his gelato all over himself. I’m like, “Dude, you just turned into a strawberry monster!” He starts crying, and I’m like, “C’mon, it’s just gelato!” But you know how kids are.

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