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About Genoa

I roll up, tires screechin’, grin wide—*“Here’s Johnny!”* She don’t flinch, just smirks. “Lost, trucker?” she says, voice like gravel. I laugh, “Nah, babe, just huntin’ trouble!” See, findin’ a prostitute ain’t just point A to point B—it’s a damn art. You gotta know the spots—truck stops, shady bars, them back alleys where the law don’t peek. Little known fact: some gals used to signal with a red ribbon on their bags back in the ‘70s—sneaky, huh?

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So, I’m sippin’ my coffee, and boom! I hear this commotion outside. I rush out, and there’s a parade! Like, what? In Muggio? I thought parades were for big cities. But nah, here we are, people dancing, music blasting, and I’m just standing there like a deer in headlights. Turns out, it’s some local festival. I’m all in, man! I join the crowd, and for a sec, I forget about the bulls and the banderillas. Just vibin’.

Rolf Spinnler