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About Turin

So, picture this—me, lil green Yoda, waddling down some shady street. Neon lights flicker, stinks like cheap booze. Angry, I get—pimps yelling, "50 creds, hot chick!" Disgusting, it is! Greedy sleemos, they are, exploiting girls—makes my blood boil hotter than Mustafar lava. Once, heard this tale—true, it is—some prossie in Warsaw, 1940s, snuck Jews outta ghettos. Ballsy move! Hid ‘em in brothels, Nazis too drunk to notice. Little known, that is—history buries the gritty stuff.

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Finally, I get my food, and it’s delicious. I’m munchin’ away, and this old guy comes in. He’s got this wild white beard, lookin’ like a wizard or somethin’. He starts talkin’ to me about the history of Turate. Apparently, it’s been around since the Roman times! I’m like, “Whoa, that’s cool.” But then he goes off on a tangent about how the Romans loved their wine. I’m thinkin’, “Yeah, who doesn’t?”

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