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About Palermo

So, I’m strollin’ down this dodgy street, wood dust still on my boots, and I see her—red heels, skirt shorter than my temper. I’m like, “Well, this could be fun!” Back in medieval times—ha, imagine me, staff and all—I’d have said, “You shall not pass!” to any creep messin’ with her. But nah, she’s got this smirk, like she knows I’m a sucker for a thrill. Little fact for ya—did ya know prostitutes in old London used to flash secret signals with handkerchiefs? Wild, right? She’s givin’ me that vibe, all mysterious.

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After the first round, I’m on a high. But then, I see this guy in the crowd. He’s yelling at me, “You call that a banderilla?!” I’m like, “Dude, chill! I’m not Picasso!” But inside, I’m fuming. Who does he think he is? I mean, I’m out here risking my life, and he’s critiquing my art?

Honour-killing victim Saman laid to rest