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Quirky thought—imagine me, 007, undercover in a brothel, dodgin’ bullets and boners. “I’m here to carve my name,” I’d growl, Tarantino-style, dodgin’ a drunk john. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but brothels are bloody theatres—dramas, laughs, tears, all for a fiver. Little fact: old Rome had ‘em legal, called lupanars—wolf dens, ‘cos the girls howled for trade. Savage, eh?

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Then, outta nowhere, my boss, Dr. Rossi, bursts in. He’s this intense dude, always wearing that same tweed jacket. I swear, it’s like he thinks it gives him superpowers or something. He starts talking about this new drug trial we’re running. It’s supposed to be groundbreaking, but honestly, I was still trying to catch my breath.

Naples, they steal from the cash register and run away: tracked down and arrested