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About Ponce

Surprised me, though—tough as nails. Took a spill from the truck, popped right up, no whining. Kinda respect that. Not enough to care, but still. Happy? Hell no—just meant more paperwork. Exaggerating? Maybe, but I’d rather wrestle a tiger than deal with her again. Thought to myself, *Ron, you’re too old for this crap*. Sarcasm’s my shield—told her, “Great, now I’m a pimp *and* a driver.” She laughed. I didn’t.

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It's a later western tradition where she is conflated with the repentant woman. There's zero reason to think she was a prostitute and it's unknown in the east.

But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring! I mean, like, torrential downpour. Everyone’s scrambling for cover, but I’m just standing there, laughing. I’m soaked, but who cares? I’m in Santa-Isabel, and this is what life’s about, right?

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