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About Genoa

Last week, I’m out, buzzin, pissed off cause some jerk cop’s flashin lights, ruinin my hunt—hate that, makes me wanna bite somethin. Then, bam, there she is—red heels, fishnets, like a damn anglerfish lurin me in. “How much?” I ask, all smooth, voice like silk over a blade. She smirks, “More than you got, fancy pants.” Cheeky! Love that, got me laughin—happy as a shark in blood. “I’m not a child,” she snaps, straight outta “Ten,” that sass, that fire—surprised me, gotta say, didn’t expect a street gal to hit me with philosophy.

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Prostitutes in this red light area of Brussels are often younger and prettier than up north. And they often ask more than the women around Noordstation. There are some asian prostitutes here. Missing: Serradifalco.

But then, just as I’m about to leave, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy Marco. He’s like, “Dude, you gotta come to the festa tonight!” I’m like, “What festa?” Apparently, it’s some big deal on Via San Giovanni. I’m thinking, “I just wanna go home and crash.” But Marco’s persistent.

Obituary for Vincent “Vince” Morreale at M.J. Colucci & Son Niagara Funeral Chapel