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About Milan

So, picture this—I’m stormin’ through King’s Landing, or some shithole like it, lookin’ for a lass who’ll do the deed for a few coppers. “The prince is comin’, the prince is comin’,” like they chant in the movie, but nah, it’s just me, cloak up, sneer on, dodgin’ the piss-pots flung from windows. Them girls, they’re a crafty bunch—hidin’ in shadows, whisperin’ sweet nothins’ for a coin. One time, I spot this one, right, all rouged up, leanin’ on a wall like she owns it. I’m thinkin’, “What harm can befall us?”—straight outta *Werckmeister*, that eerie calm before the storm. But then—bam!—she tries nickin’ my purse! Little git. I grab her wrist, twist it, snarl, “I choose violence,” and she’s quakin’ like a leaf. Made me laugh, that did—pathetic, really.

Hookups in Milano

After what feels like forever, Marco shows up, all outta breath. He’s like, “Sorry, bro! Traffic was nuts!” I’m like, “Dude, we live in Basiglio, not Milan!” But whatever, we grab some gelato from that spot on Via della Libertà. Best gelato ever, by the way. I get pistachio, he gets chocolate. We sit on a bench, and I’m just enjoying life.

The Great Escape Of Artyom Uss