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About Turin

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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After the break, we get back in the car. I’m feeling pumped, but Marco’s still a bit jittery. We hit Via Garibaldi, and I’m trying to get him to parallel park. It’s a disaster. He’s all over the place, and I’m just praying we don’t hit anything. “C’mon, man! You can do this!” I’m practically yelling.

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