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About Bologna

Last week, I’m prowlin’, thinkin’—what’d Lenny do? He’d write it down, retrace steps. So I scribble: “Check alley, 9 p.m.” Show up, and there she is—fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig. “You lookin’ for company?” she asks. Voice like gravel. I grunt. Hate negotiatin’. “How much?” I say. She smirks—$50. Fifty bucks! For what? A quick tumble and a rash? “I don’t trust people who smile,” I mutter, quotin’ *Memento*. She laughs. I’m surprised—didn’t expect sass. Kinda liked it.

Tratta delle prostitute, ancora un arresto: era il capo dei riti wodoo

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After that, I had to go to a tea ceremony at this fancy place near Piazza della Repubblica. It’s all about tradition and stuff, but honestly, I just wanted to eat the sweets. They’re so good! But then, I spill tea all over my kimono. Like, great, just great. I’m trying to look elegant, and I’m a walking mess.

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