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About Genoa

So, we haggles—me hissin’, her laughin’. “Ten quid,” she says. I’m like, *you wanna play a game?*—cos I ain’t got ten! Gave her five, an’ she’s all, “Fine, ya cheap git.” We goes round a corner—dark, like Gotham’s underbelly. She’s quick, no muckin’ about—prossies don’t waste time, see? Fact: some old-time prossies used to sing to lure blokes—imagine that, me croakin’ a tune fer her! Hah! *Let’s put a smile on that face*—she didn’t laugh, tho, stony as Batman.

Anglo-Italian Cultural Transactions

Anyway, I’m chillin’ on a bench, just enjoying the vibe. Then, outta nowhere, this kid runs by, trippin’ over his own feet. He falls right in front of me! I’m like, “Oof, that’s gotta hurt.” But he just gets up, brushes himself off, and keeps runnin’. Kids these days, man. Tougher than I was!

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