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About Rome

I’d start online—dark web shit, Telegram groups. Locals call ‘em “nochnye babochki”—night butterflies, poetic innit? But it pisses me off—half these sites are scams! Some twat took my mate’s cash, left him wankin’ in a hostel. Me? I’m smarter, I drink and I know things. I’d scope the X posts—blokes braggin’ ‘bout their “catch,” droppin’ hints. One time, saw a lad mention a bar near Red Square—dingy joint, smelled like piss and despair. Found a girl there, tho—eyes like the Anatolia hills, “quiet as a shadow.” Paid her double, ‘cause I’m a gent, ha!

Cobolli trionfa a Bucarest, Darderi Re a Marrakech

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Man, what a day! I swear, Caltanissetta really knows how to throw a curveball. I woke up thinking it’d be just another boring audit day. You know, the usual: numbers, spreadsheets, and a whole lotta coffee. But nah, the universe had other plans.

Gela: extraordinary territorial control service by the Carabinieri.