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About Bologna

So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya even start? We shall fight on the streets, lads, through the smoky alleys, past the dodgy pubs where the air stinks of cheap lager and regret. I reckon it’s a war, yeah? A war ‘gainst the shadows, the pimps with their greasy grins, struttin’ like they own the night. Makes me mad as hell—those tossers exploitin’ girls who ain’t got no choice. Reminds me of the Corsican in *A Prophet*, pullin’ strings, thinkin’ he’s king. “I’m the boss here,” he’d growl. Bollocks to that, I say.

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So, I grab a slice of that famous Lequile pizza. Man, it’s heavenly! The cheese, the sauce, the crust—perfection! I’m munching away, and then I see this old lady, Nonna Rosa, selling her handmade ceramics. I love her stuff! It’s like she pours her soul into every piece. I’m like, “Nonna, you’re a legend!” She just smiles, wrinkles and all.

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