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About Galati

So, picture this—me, lil green Yoda, waddling down some shady street. Neon lights flicker, stinks like cheap booze. Angry, I get—pimps yelling, "50 creds, hot chick!" Disgusting, it is! Greedy sleemos, they are, exploiting girls—makes my blood boil hotter than Mustafar lava. Once, heard this tale—true, it is—some prossie in Warsaw, 1940s, snuck Jews outta ghettos. Ballsy move! Hid ‘em in brothels, Nazis too drunk to notice. Little known, that is—history buries the gritty stuff.

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Finally, I get my coffee. It’s lukewarm, but whatever. I’m not picky. I stroll down to the park near the river, and it’s beautiful. The sun’s shining, kids are playing, and I’m feeling all zen. But then, outta nowhere, this dog runs up to me, jumps, and knocks my coffee all over my shirt. I’m like, “Great, just great!”

Sam Nicoresti