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About Rome

So, I’m thinkin’, why not? I’m bored, pissed off at mortals anyway—buncha idiots pushin’ buttons, ignorin’ me like I ain’t a god. Findin’ a prossie sounds like a laugh, a little chaos to stir the pot. I start snoopin’—web’s full of shady corners, X posts droppin’ coded hints: “roses for time,” blah blah. Little known fact? Back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—poetic, right? Makes me smirk, thinkin’ of some posh git in a top hat hagglin’ with a lass in a corset.

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First thing, I’m tryna whip up my famous focaccia. You know, the one that makes people stop in their tracks on Via Roma? Yeah, that one. But guess what? I’m outta olive oil! Like, seriously? Who runs outta olive oil in Italy? So, I dash over to the local market on Via Garibaldi. It’s still dark, and I’m half-asleep, but I’m like, “I need that oil!”

Authorities take control of DB Schenker Italiana over subcontractor’s alleged mafia links