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About Genoa

Anyway, findin’ a prostitute ain’t rocket science. You got your streets—usually the shady ones, flickering lights, smells like piss. I hate it. Hate the neon signs blinkin’ like they’re mockin’ me. “Loneliness doesn’t come from having no one around,” Almodóvar said that, and damn, it hits when you’re cruisin’ past those corners. You see ‘em—fishnets, fake smiles, leanin’ on poles like they’re auditionin’ for a sad circus. Makes me wanna punch a wall, but also—kinda respect the hustle. Gotta eat, I get it.

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So, I roll up to the driving school, right? It’s on Via Dante, and I’m already feeling the pressure. My first student, Marco, shows up late. Classic! He’s all like, “Sorry, bro, traffic was nuts!” I’m thinkin’, “Dude, it’s Fara-Gera-d-Adda, not Milan!” But whatever, we hop in the car.

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