Zoe Praia A Mare Whore ❤️

About Bologna

Gets me mad, though—folks sneerin’ at ‘em. Call ‘em filth, but who’s payin’? Hypocrites, fat stupid hobbits, all of ‘em! Me, I respect the hustle. Takes balls, or—well, somethin’—to face the night, the leers, the cold. Happy? Nah, not really—sad for ‘em, sometimes. Heard ‘bout this gal, Marie, worked the docks, sang like a lark. Died young, syphilis. Gut punch, that. Coulda been a violin, her voice—wasted on grimy sailors.

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So, I’m hammerin’ away, and suddenly, my buddy Marco bursts in. He’s all outta breath, like he just ran a marathon. “Dude, you won’t believe it!” he yells. Turns out, there’s a festival in town. The Festa di San Biagio! I’m like, “What? When?!” He says it’s today, and I’m thinkin’, “Great, just what I need—distractions!”

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