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About Turin

Man, lemme tell ya bout escort, motherfucker! Shit’s wild, like *Crouching Tiger* on steroids. You got these slick cats rollin’ round, fancy cars, flashin’ cash—protection, y’know? I’m talkin’ hired muscle, not them other escorts, nah, keep it straight. Seen it once, this dude, built like a damn ox, escortin’ some rich prick—thought he was Chow Yun-Fat flyin’ through bamboo! “The sword remains in its sheath,” he says—bullshit, he’s packin’ heat under that suit!

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Then, outta nowhere, my boss, Signor Rossi, walks in. He’s this grumpy old dude who thinks he’s the king of teeth. He starts ranting about some new regulations. I’m just nodding, but inside I’m like, “Dude, chill. It’s just teeth!” But he’s on a roll, and I can’t escape. I swear, I aged five years listening to him.

Making tracks with Mark Cavendish