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About Genoa

We haggle, me mutterin’, “My precious coin!” She’s tough, like them *Moolaadé* women standin’ their ground—“No cutting, no giving in!” she’d fit right in, I reckon. Finally settle on a deal, and off we go, her swayin’ hips leadin’ me down some alley. Heart’s poundin’—happy as a pig in muck, I am! But then—surprise!—some bloke jumps out, her pimp probly, all “Gimme yer cash, ya twit!” Made me ragey, precious, oh yes! I swing me fist—carpenter’s hands, hard as oak—and he’s down, groanin’. “We purify!” I hiss, like in the movie, feelin’ righteous, yeah?

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Then, outta nowhere, I get a call from some guy on Via Fratelli Cervi. He’s like, “I lost my keys!” I’m thinkin’, “Dude, retrace your steps!” But no, he’s convinced they’ve been stolen by aliens or something. I’m just here, trying not to laugh. I mean, Montefiascone is beautiful, but aliens? Really?

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