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About Catania

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!

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Later, I decide to hit up the local market on Via Garibaldi. Fresh produce everywhere! I grab some tomatoes, and this old lady starts chatting me up about her garden. She’s super passionate, talking about heirloom varieties and organic this and that. I’m just nodding along, but inside I’m like, “Lady, I just want my salad fix.”

Cycling, Bozzola (Otelli) triumphs at the junior Liberation trophy