Emily Marco Simone Whore ❤️

About Genoa

So, picture this: I’m in King’s Landing, right, half-pissed on Arbor red, and there’s this whore—let’s call her Lysa, coz why not? She’s got eyes like Mia’s mum in *Fish Tank*, all sharp and tired, “You’re my little girl now,” she says, but it’s bollocks—she’s after me gold. I laugh, coz I see through it, I *know* things, see? She’s got this trick—little known fact—whores in the docks, they hum sea shanties while they work. Keeps ‘em sane, I reckon. Lysa’s hummin’ away, and I’m thinkin’, “Seven hells, this is fuckin’ poetry!” Made me happy, that did—somethin’ pure in the muck.

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After that chaos, I finally get to the good stuff. The crowd’s hyped, and I’m feeling it. I’m in my zone, you know? But then, I spot this guy on Via della Libertà. He’s just standing there, looking lost. I’m like, “Dude, you okay?” Turns out, he’s a tourist who wandered in. I’m like, “Welcome to Marco-Simone! You’re in for a treat!”

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