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About Palermo

So, findin a prossie ain’t just strollin up and wavin gold. Nah, it’s a bloody game! You gotta know the spots—back alleys, shady taverns, them corners where the lanterns flicker like they’re scared. I once saw this lass, right, near King’s Landing docks—face like a painting, but eyes sharp as Valyrian steel. “A charming third-rate establishment,” I’d call it, like M. Gustave’d say. Made me happy, that did—crafty ones always got stories.

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But wait, there’s more! Just as I’m about to enjoy my gelato, another call comes in. A car crash on Via Roma. I’m like, “Seriously? Can’t a guy catch a break?” But duty calls, so I hop back in the truck.

Nino Rota's Aladdin: a fairy tale in Martina Franca