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About Florence

So, picture this—met this hooker once, name’s Candy, swear to God. She’s out there, fishnets rippin’, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. Told me she started at 16—sixteen, y’all! Pissed me off somethin’ fierce. Some sleazy pimp snatched her up, promised her the moon. Now she’s 30, lookin’ 50, smokin’ cigs like it’s her job. “How’s that workin’ for ya, darlin’?” I asked. She laughed—dry, like tumbleweed rollin’. Said, “Better than starvin’, Doc.”

O progresso das prostitutas, 1733

These are the same streets from which rape accused Sifiso Mkhwanazi picked up some of the six prostitutes he allegedly killed in The safety of sex workers in Johannesburg came to light.

First up is Marco. Kid’s 17, thinks he’s the next F1 champ. He hops in the car, all cocky. I’m like, “Dude, chill. You gotta learn to drive before you can drift.” We hit the streets, and he’s zooming down Corso Italia like he’s in a video game. I’m gripping the “oh crap” handle, praying we don’t end up in the canal.

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