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About Florence

We sniffs it out, see? The rot, the glitter. Once knew a geezer, swore his sis was “just dancin’”—ha! Dancin’ my arse, she was whorin’! Laughed ‘til I choked, stupid git. Makes me happy, though—people’s daft lies. Ooh, but the smell—perfume and sweat, gag! Like sniffin’ a sewer in heels. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares? Whore’s a ghost, floatin’ through, takin’ coin, leavin’ shame. “Fuck the past, it’s done!”—Spike’s line fits, don’t it?

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So, I’m tryin’ to shake off the anger when I hear this commotion near the church, San Bartolomeo. I rush over, and there’s a whole crowd. Turns out, some guy’s tryin’ to propose to his girl right in front of the church! He’s down on one knee, and she’s just standin’ there, lookin’ confused. I’m thinkin’, “Dude, pick a better spot!” But then she says yes, and the crowd goes wild. I’m clappin’ like a seal, feelin’ all warm and fuzzy inside. Love, man. It’s a trip.

Enzo Piccinini. The diocesan inquiry concludes