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About Florence

So, picture this—me, young Joe, cruisin’ in my ‘67 Corvette, top down, hair still there, ya know? I’d never—never—go lookin’ for that kinda trouble. But my buddy Mike? Hoo boy, he’d drag me along, sayin’, “C’mon, man, live a little!” We’d roll up to some dive bar—neon flickerin’ like it’s half-dead. This one time, ‘round ‘82, Mike spots this gal—fishnets, red lipstick, smokin’ a cig like she owned the joint. He’s all, “Joe, she’s the one!” I’m thinkin’, “Fear’s takin’ over my head now”—like in the movie, ya get me?

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The water is murky and dirty. The people harrass you and tried to get my husband prostitutes in front of me. The ruins are a joke and we were ripped off.

Then, outta nowhere, this pigeon decides to play chicken with us. I’m yellin’, “Marco, brake!” But he swerves instead. We miss the pigeon, but hit a pothole. I’m bouncing around like a bobblehead. “Dude, you just scared the life outta me!” He laughs, thinks it’s hilarious. I’m like, “Yeah, well, I’m not ready to meet my maker today!”

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