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About Genoa

I’m ramblin’, but—ooh, imagine Jesse James rollin’ up to a saloon. “You’re a whore’s son,” someone’d spit, and he’d just smirk. Prostitutes prolly saved his ass once, hid him under a bed or somethin’. Me? I’d bake ‘em a cake—red velvet, sexy as hell. Sarcasm time: “Oh no, she’s ruinin’ society!” Please, society’s been trash since forever. I say, let ‘em work, pay taxes, live. “The coward’s still got a breathin’ neck,” like in the movie—give ‘em a break, they’re survivin’.

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So, I finally get to the job site, right? It’s this old villa on Via del Lago. Gorgeous place, but man, it’s a fixer-upper. I’m talking about beams that look like they’ve seen better days. I’m all set to start, and then my buddy Marco shows up. He’s late too, of course. He’s got this huge grin on his face, like he just won the lottery. Turns out, he did! He found a stash of old wine bottles in the cellar. Like, who even leaves that behind? I’m happy for him, but also, dude, we got work to do!

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