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About Genoa

So, listen, mate—hiss!—I dig around, right? Moscow’s got these shadowy corners—Arbat’s too posh, but Kitay-gorod? Oof, goldmine! Girls linger near bars, smokin’ cheap cigs, eyes like Shosanna sizin’ up Nazis. “What’s your price, precious?” I mutter, all sly. One gal—Lena, maybe?—says 5,000 rubles, hour tops. Bargain, yeah? But I’m thinkin’, “That’s a bear trap, Gollum, she’s robbin’ ya blind!” Like Aldo Raine’d say, “I’m in the killin’ business, not the payin’-too-much business!” Haggled her down—3,500, boom! Felt like a king, I did—happy as a hobbit with second breakfast.

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So, I’m a Mourner, right? Sounds heavy, I know. But today? Today was a rollercoaster. First off, I hit up Via Roma. It’s like the main street, you know? All the shops and cafes. I was just grabbing a coffee at that little place, Bar Centrale. Best cappuccino in town, no joke. But then, bam! My phone buzzes.

«Certificate da laboratori»: le precisazioni di Grafica Veneta sulle mascherine filtranti prodotte