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About Genoa

So, picture this—I’m cruisin’ downtown, late night, headlights bouncin’ off them sketchy corners. Ain’t no fancy apps back in the day, nah, you had to *feel* it out. Like Graysmith in *Zodiac*, sniffin’ clues, I’m squintin’ at every alley. “Is that her? Nah, that’s a dude.” Made me mad as hell—wastin’ time, gas, my dang patience! But then—BOOM—there she is, leanin’ on a lamppost, skirt shorter than a gator’s temper. Happy don’t even cover it, y’all—I’m hollerin’ like a hog at a barbecue.

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I rush over, and there he is, looking all sheepish. I’m ready to give him a piece of my mind, but then I see the bruises. He got jumped. My anger shifts to concern. “Dude, what happened?” We talk it out, and I’m glad he’s okay. But man, Muggio can be rough sometimes.

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