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About Palermo

But nah, she’s all biz. I ask, “How much, sugar?” She smirks—ooh, that smirk made me mad! Like, who’s she to judge me, right? She says, “50 bucks, blondie,” and I’m like, “50?! For what—two minutes?” Made me wanna scream, but I laughed instead—happy, surprised, all at once. Did ya know—fun fact—back in the ‘50s, gals like her charged a damn nickel? Inflation’s a bitch, huh!

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From the obscure posters on the street walls and graffitis, you find prostitution ads as well as recruitment for a massage girl's crew. On.

So, I’m sippin’ my coffee, and I head to the radio station. It’s on Via San Giovanni, right near the old Etruscan walls. Those walls are ancient, man. Like, they’ve seen some stuff. I’m just a radio operator, but I feel like I’m part of history every time I walk by. Anyway, I get to the station, and it’s chaos. Absolute chaos.

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