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About Turin

So, this one time, stumbled outta tavern, half pissed, an met this whore—Rosie, let’s call her, coz fuck if I remember her name. She had eyes like them favela kids, sharp an hungry, y’know? “Gimme ya silver, short-arse,” she says, bold as brass. Laughed me head off—cheeky tart! Gave her double, coz I’m a soft git when drunk. She weren’t just a shag, tho—told me stories, proper dark ones. Said she once nicked a lord’s purse mid-fuck, spent it on bread for her brat. Ballsy, right? Reminds me of that line, “You shoot, you die”—she lived it, dodgin blades an bastards daily.

Assago on Wikipedia

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So, I’m zooming down Via Verdi, and boom! I see this street performer. Dude’s got a saxophone, and he’s playing like he’s in a jazz club. I stop, totally vibing. I mean, who doesn’t love a good sax solo? I toss him a couple of euros, feeling all generous. But then, outta nowhere, a pigeon decides my shoulder is the perfect landing spot. Ugh! Thanks, bird. Just what I needed.

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