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About Turin

So I hit this dive bar, stinks like vodka and regret. This chick, Natasha—fake name, obvi—comes up, all hips and smirks. “You want fun, da?” I’m like, hell yea, but I ain’t payin upfront, no way! She rolls her eyes, but I’m Eric fuckin Cartman—I don’t budge! “Respect my authoritah!” I yell in my head. She’s hot, tho—makes me happy, like, damn, Russia’s got game! Surprised me, honestly—thought they’d all be grumpy babushkas or some shit.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, torrential downpour. I’m soaked in seconds. I’m running for cover, dodging puddles like I’m in some weird obstacle course. I duck into a shop on Via della Repubblica. It’s a tiny bookstore, and I’m like, “Okay, I’ll wait it out.”

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