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About Bologna

But—oh, mate—what pisses me off? The hypocrites! Them posh twats judgin’ whores while sneakin’ round back for a quickie. Makes my blood boil, it does. “Please, Mr. Kennedy,” I’d say, mockin’ em, “don’t shoot me down for callin’ you out!” Two-faced pricks, all of em. Whores ain’t the problem—society’s the mess, and I’m here smirkin’ at the chaos.

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I finish up, and I’m outta there. I race to the piazza, and there she is, waving like a maniac. We hug, and it’s like all the stress melts away. We grab a spritz at a bar on Via Cavour. The sun’s setting, and Cerese looks magical.

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