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About Palermo

So, I’m strollin’, right, lookin’ for a bird who’s up for it. Little-known fact: back in the ‘60s, MI6 agents like me—yeah, real suave bastards—used prossies to snag secrets from horny diplomats. True story! This one time, I spot her—legs for days, skirt so short it’s basically a belt. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, sidlin’ up. She’s all, “Wotcha want, love?” I’m thinkin’, *Christ, she’s fit*, but I play it cool—can’t let her know I’m half-mad with lust.

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I’m sitting there, fuming. I mean, c’mon! I’ve got deadlines, people! I start thinking about how I could’ve just walked. But nah, I’m not about that life. I need my coffee fix first. So, I finally get to the café on Via Mazzini. Best cappuccino in town, no joke. But guess what? They’re out of my favorite pastry. Ugh! I’m like, “Really? You had one job!”

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