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About Turin

So, anyway—me, Gollum, I’m sneaky, seein’ what normies miss. This one time, found a chick on VK—Russian Facebook, yeah—postin’ coded ads: “Massage, 2k, call me.” Massage my arse! Hiss! Rang her up, met in some dingy flat—smelled like borscht and regret. She was quick, tho—no chit-chat, just biz. “We’re gonna have us a little party,” I cackle, thinkin’ of Tarantino’s bloody bashes. Paid her, done, out—felt like a spy, precious! Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but it’s Russia, everythin’s a damn drama.

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So, I’m dodging traffic, and I get to the office. The usual grind, right? But today, my boss decides to drop a bomb. “We need to organize the annual festival.” Oh great, just what I wanted. I mean, I love the Sagra della Focaccia, but the stress? Not so much.

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