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About Palermo

Fear leads to anger, anger to hate—people hate whores ‘cause they’re free, man. Royal’d get it, sayin, “Let’s shag ass,” runnin from the norm. Whores don’t play by rules, and I dig that—fire don’t neither. Burned my leg once, screamed like a bitch, Cherry’d prob laugh, “Pussy!” Humor’s dark, but real. So yeah, whores—tough, messy, human. “I’ve had a rough year, Dad,” Richie’d mumble, and whores’d nod—same, bro, same.

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After that, I’m feeling good again. I stroll down Via delle Vigne, soaking in the sights. The houses are all colorful, and the vibe is just... Quartucciu, you know? But then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, heavy rain. I’m caught off guard, and I’m sprinting for cover. I duck into this little café, and guess what? It’s packed! I’m standing there, dripping wet, looking like a drowned rat.

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