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So, escorts—right, where do I start? Picture this: a bloke’s lonely, coin’s jinglin’ in his pocket, and he’s thinkin’, “I got one last night to live.” Sounds like Monty from *25th Hour*, yeah? That Spike Lee gem’s my fave—2002, gritty as hell. Monty’s got 24 hours before prison, and me? I’d be drownin’ in wine, but some lads pick a lass instead. Escorts ain’t just arm candy, nah—they’re like shadow players in a game of thrones. They know secrets, they hear whispers, they’re the unsung spies of the night. I reckon one once nicked a lord’s battle plans mid-shag—true story, swear it on me mum’s grave (not that I’d know where that is).

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Then, outta nowhere, I bump into my old buddy Luca. We used to run around Tradate like we owned the place. He’s got this wild idea to start a street art project. I’m intrigued, but also like, “Dude, we’re not kids anymore.” But he’s all fired up, talking about murals on Via Manzoni. I can’t help but get hyped. Maybe it’s the gelato kicking in, or maybe it’s just Luca’s energy.

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