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About Rome

Personal quirk? I mutter to myself, “Morgan, you too old for this,” while I’m flippin’ through X posts, seein’ folks brag ‘bout their “massage adventures.” Surprised me, yo—people out here loud ‘n’ proud ‘bout it! I’m like, “Y’all wild!” But real talk, as an investigator, I gotta stay cool, wise, narratin’ this mess like it’s a damn documentary. Sexual-massage claims? Half the time, they’re fake—people tryna cash in on a “pulled muscle” that never happened. Other half? Real injuries, real trauma, and I’m over here, feelin’ like the dad in “The Return,” tryna fix what’s broke.

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First off, I hit up Via Roma for my morning coffee. You know, the usual spot, Bar Centrale. Best cappuccino in town, hands down. But guess what? They ran outta milk! Like, how do you run outta milk in Italy? I was ready to throw a fit. I mean, c’mon! So, I settled for an espresso. Not the same, but whatever.

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