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About Turin

Last week, I’m out, buzzed, lookin’ for a score. This chick—red heels, fake laugh—saunters up. “Hey, sugar, need a friend?” I’m thinkin’, friend? Ha! More like a transaction, darlin’. She’s got that WALL-E vibe—worn out, but still grindin’. “Must… keep… movin’,” I mutter, mockin’ her in my head. I ask her rate—50 bucks, she says. Cheap, right? Too cheap. Red flag. I’m like, “Clarice… somethin’s off.” Trap, maybe? Cops? Pimp watchin’? I bounce—ain’t riskin’ that.

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Anyway, I shake it off and head to the park. Parco della Resistenza, right? It’s got this chill vibe. Kids are playing, old folks are feeding ducks, and I’m just trying to find a bench. But guess what? Every bench is taken! I mean, c’mon, people! It’s not like there’s a bench shortage!

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