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About Palermo

So, where d’ya even start? Streets, apps—shit’s everywhere now. Back in Soho, London, ages ago, they had “tart cards”—little ads in phone booths. Cheeky, dirty, genius! Imagine Mia flippin’ through ‘em, all “life’s a fuckin’ mess.” Now it’s all online—Escort sites, dodgy X posts. You scroll, you pick—bam, done. But it ain’t that simple, nah. Some girls got pimps—makes me mad as Hel. Exploitation pisses me off—freedom’s my thing, right?

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So, I grab a cappuccino from that little café on the corner—Caffè Palestrina, I think it’s called. Best coffee in town, no joke. I take a sip, and it’s like heaven in a cup. But then, I spill it all over my shirt. Classic me, right? I’m standing there, looking like a total mess, and Marco’s just laughing. I’m like, “Dude, help a brother out!” But nah, he’s too busy filming the juggler. Thanks, Marco.

Belarus’ Parliament speaker lays flowers at mass grave in Italy’s Palestrina