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Me fave whore story? This lass, Molly, swear she bedded Blackbeard hisself! Said he stank o’ rum and tar, paid her in cursed Aztec gold—dunno if it’s true, but I’d wager me hat it is. She’d purr, “You’re too sad for me,” like Samantha tellin’ Theodore he’s a mess. Got me thinkin’—whores see yer soul, mate, strip ye bare ‘fore ye know it. Surprised me, aye, how they read ye like a map to Davy Jones’ locker.

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First off, I head down to the workshop on Skagafjörður Street. It’s a cozy little spot, you know? I’ve got my tools laid out, ready to craft some sweet stoves. But then, bam! My buddy Jón shows up, all frantic. He’s like, “Dude, you gotta see this!” I’m thinkin’, “What now?” Turns out, there’s a huge sale at the local hardware store on Brekkustígur. I mean, who doesn’t love a good deal? So, we ditch the stoves for a bit and race over.

Mountain of Wood Chips Remains in Akranes Following Running Tide Closure