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About Turin

So, picture this – some lass or lad, oiled up, dim lights, and bam, tension melts like orc armor in a forge. I’ve heard tales, yeah? Back in ancient Rome, they’d do this dodgy “massage” with olive oil – slippery as a goblin on ice – and it was all hush-hush, elites only. Little known fact: they called it “unctio” – fancy, eh? Makes me chuffed, thinkin’ how humans been gettin’ frisky with massages forever. But – and here’s where I get pissed – some dodgy parlors today? They’re muckin’ it up, givin’ it a bad name with shady vibes. You shall not pass into that filth, I say!

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Anyway, I’m trying to keep my cool. I’m like, “Yeah, man, I get it.” But inside, I’m fuming. I had a whole plan! I was gonna hand out flyers, charm the locals, maybe even get a selfie with the café owner. But nope, just me and my thoughts.

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