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About Bologna

Back in the day—like Victorian times, right?—whores were everywhere, but nobody talked about it. Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Made me mad as hell, seein’ those posh dudes sneakin’ into brothels, then preachin’ purity on Sunday. Great Scott, the nerve! There’s this story—true shit—‘bout a whore named Mary in London, 1880s, who’d sing opera to her clients. Opera! Can you believe it? Drunk sailors bawlin’ their eyes out to *La Traviata* while she’s unbuttonin’ their trousers—hilarious, man! Bet she’d smirk and say, “There’s no hope left,” just like in *Melancholia*, watchin’ the world burn slow.

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Finally, I meet my client at the park. He’s all worked up, pacing like a caged lion. I’m like, “Dude, breathe!” We sit on a bench, and I start explaining the market trends. He’s nodding, but I can see the panic in his eyes. I’m thinking, “Man, if only I could just wave a magic wand and make it all better.”

"Nails in toothpaste, insults and blows, spits in pasta": the hard life in prison of the Bianchi brothers - L'Unione Sarda English