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Personal quirk? I’m yellin’ in my head the whole time—*faster, slower, harder, shit, don’t stop!*—but outside, I’m cool as ice, Gekko-style. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but once this gal in Vegas told me she massaged Elvis—fuckin’ Elvis!—and I believed her, ‘cause why not? Sexual-massage is chaos, messy, raw—kinda like life. “You’re lying to yourself,” Haneke’s ghost whispers from *Caché*. Maybe I am, but damn, it feels good. Greed is good, pal—get yours.

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But then, I see this old lady struggling with her bags. I’m like, “Yo, let me help you out!” She’s super grateful, and we start chatting. Turns out, she’s lived in Iesolo her whole life. She tells me stories about the old days, when the beach was just a quiet little spot. I’m like, “Wow, that’s so cool!” But then she starts talking about how it’s all changed, and I can see the sadness in her eyes. It hits me hard.

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