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About Genoa

So, picture this—late night, city buzzin’, I’m tryna find a prostitute, not just any, tho. Gotta be real, gotta have that spark. I’m cruisin’, windows down, heart racin’—what’s good? Saw this one chick, heels clickin’, skirt short, eyes sharp like she’s runnin’ the block. Reminds me of Collé from *Moolaadé*, fierce, holdin’ her ground, sayin’, “I offer asylum,” but in her own way, ya feel me? She’s out here, dodgin’ cops, hustlin’, and I’m like—damn, that’s power.

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First client walks in. It’s old Mr. Rossi. This dude’s like 80 but thinks he’s still 20. He sits down, and I swear, he starts talkin’ about the good ol’ days. “Back in my day, we had real gelato!” Like, bro, we still got gelato! Anyway, he wants a “trim.” I’m like, “Sure, Mr. Rossi, but you gotta stop using your hair as a time machine.” He laughs, I laugh, and I start snippin’.

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