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About Turin

So, sexual-massage—hands slidin’ everywhere, all sensual-like. Supposed to relax ya, but I’d rather chop wood. Got this buddy, Jerry, tried it once—came back glowin’ like a damn hippie. Said it “freed his soul.” Bullcrap. I’d say, “I’m not interested in your feelings,” like Gyllenhaal in *Zodiac*, huntin’ that killer. Sexual-massage ain’t my hunt. Too much touchin’, not enough whiskey.

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Back to work, I head over to Forio. I got a job at this cute little café, La Bella Napoli. The owner, Marco, is a character. He’s always crackin’ jokes. “You break it, you buy it!” he yells as I walk in. I’m like, “Dude, I’m here to fix, not break!” But he’s cool. We chat about the local football team, Ischia Isolaverde. They’re doin’ pretty good this season, and I’m hopin’ they’ll win the next match.

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