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About Genoa

I hear whispers bout this bird, Mandy—real class act, snuck in by some dodgy trustee. Word is, she’s got legs like a Martini glass, smooth and dangerous. Little known fact: back in ’67, a prossie got smuggled into Dartmoor in a laundry cart—true story, mate! So I’m thinkin, maybe Mandy’s my golden goose. I’m buzzin, heart racin—shit, I’m Bond, I deserve this! “Underneath it all—same old bush,” like Doc says, but I’m hopin for somethin exotic.

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Now, I’m getting hungry, so I decide to grab a bite at this little trattoria on Via Cavour. I order some pasta, and it’s like a flavor explosion in my mouth. I’m talking next-level good. I’m practically in heaven. But then, the waiter spills water all over my lap. I’m soaked! I’m laughing, but inside I’m like, “Really? Is this my life now?”

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