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About Florence

Still, I liked her. Rough round the edges, sure, but real. “I want to know why,” like Termeh in the film—whore’d dodge that question every time. Why’d she do it? Cos she had to, cos she could, cos fuck the world—that’s my guess. We’d sit there, me rantin’ bout the arena, her spillin’ dirt on posh clients. Once said a consul liked her to dress as a Vestal Virgin—ironic, eh? Laughed me tits off at that. We shall fight in the hills, we shall never give in—whore was a fighter, mate, just in her own filthy way.

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Then, outta nowhere, this kid runs in, all hyped up. He’s shoutin’ about a festival happening later. I’m like, “Festival? What festival?” The old dude fills me in. It’s some kinda food festival down by the beach. I’m thinkin’, “Heck yeah, I’m in!” So, I grab my cannoli (which, by the way, was freakin’ amazing) and head out.

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