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About Milan

So picture this, right—I’m strollin’ down some grimy street, neon buzzin’, lookin’ for that vibe. Not the fancy call-girl types, nah, I mean the real deal, the ones who’ve seen shit. Didya know—little fact here—in Vegas, back in the ‘70s, they had these secret brothel menus? Like orderin’ a burger, but with handcuffs! Wild, right? Makes me laugh, thinkin’ some dude’s like, “Gimme the special, extra sauce!” Anyway, I’m walkin’, and this chick—legs for days—catches my eye. She’s leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’, lookin’ bored as hell. “What’s your time worth?” I ask, slow, curious-like. She smirks, “More than your watch, pops.”

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Anyway, I finally get to the market, and it’s packed. I’m talking sardines in a can packed. I’m sweating like a sinner in church. I grab some local goodies—cannoli, fresh fish, you know, the usual. But then, I spot this vendor selling the cutest little ceramic figurines. I’m like, “I need these for my display!” But the guy? He’s like, “No discounts, my friend.” I’m like, “C’mon, man! I’m a local!” But he just shrugs. Rude, right?

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