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About Bari

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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By the end of the day, I’m exhausted. I stroll down Via Garibaldi, taking in the sights. The sunset is gorgeous, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. I stop for gelato because, duh, it’s Osimo! I grab a scoop of pistachio and just chill for a moment.

Mirko Savoretti triumphs at the 4th Millecinque Trophy in Osimo