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About Naples

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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It seems like you're looking up to a prostitute because you look just like one. It's giving slut. Even though she a GTA.

But then, oh man, the drama hit. I’m just mindin’ my business, and suddenly, my combine starts sputterin’. Like, really? Right in the middle of Zuni? I’m freakin’ out. I pull over on 5th St. and pop the hood. I’m no mechanic, but I know enough to know I’m in deep trouble.

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