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About Catania

So, findin’ one? Start in city, not forest, duh. Back alleys, neon buzzin’, smells like piss and desperation. Little fact—did ya know Moscow’s got secret brothels since Soviet days? Hidden, brutal, efficient—like me. I’m walkin’, boots hittin’ ground, thinkin’ “What’s the price?” Cash rules, always does. Girls standin’ there, eyes dead, like slaves in that movie—“You got no right!”—but they ain’t fightin’ back. Makes me mad, yeah? World’s cold, I made it colder.

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So, I settle for an espresso. It’s strong, like, “Whoa, I can feel my heart racing.” I sit outside, trying to soak in the vibe. The sun’s shining, and I’m thinking, “Okay, maybe this city ain’t so bad.” But then, BAM! A pigeon poops right next to me. Like, really? I’m just trying to enjoy my coffee, and you gotta drop a bomb?

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