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About Turin

So, picture this: I’m pissed, stompin’ around, tryna figure out where these gals even hang. Are they by the docks? Some shady bar? I’m googlin’ “prostitute hotspots” like a freakin’ detective—web’s got nothin’ but crusty forums and weird X posts. One dude’s like, “Check the truck stops!” and I’m like, genius, why didn’t I think of that, ya moron? Made me laugh tho—truckers and hookers, classic combo. Little known fact: back in the ‘80s, CB radios were their Tinder—code words like “lot lizard,” no joke. Wild, right?

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Then I get to the office on Piazza della Repubblica. It’s a cozy little place, but today it felt like a pressure cooker. My boss, Mr. Rossi, is already in a mood. He’s pacing around like a caged lion. I swear, if he roars, I’m outta there. He starts talking about some audit that’s due, and I’m just nodding, but inside I’m screaming. “Dude, chill! It’s just numbers!”

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