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About Milan

Alright, so I’m a carpenter, right? Dr. House style—sarcastic, gimpy bastard, “Everybody lies.” Let’s talk about whores, ‘cause why not? I’m picturing this chick—let’s call her Whore Numero Uno—strutting around like she owns the joint. Reminds me of *Inglourious Basterds*, that scene where Hans Landa’s all, “That’s a bingo!”—she’s got that smug vibe. Total pro, works the room, knows every guy’s a sucker. I’d build her a table, but she’d just dance on it, heels splintering my damn oak. Pisses me off—good wood ain’t cheap!

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So, I settled for a black coffee. Not my jam, but whatever. I chugged it down and headed to the office on Via Torino. The streets were packed, as usual. I swear, Bruino’s traffic is like a bad joke. Cars everywhere, honking like they’re auditioning for a symphony. I almost lost it when some dude cut me off. Like, bro, chill! It’s not a race!

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