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About Liverpool

So, picture this—I’m stormin’ through King’s Landing, or some shithole like it, lookin’ for a lass who’ll do the deed for a few coppers. “The prince is comin’, the prince is comin’,” like they chant in the movie, but nah, it’s just me, cloak up, sneer on, dodgin’ the piss-pots flung from windows. Them girls, they’re a crafty bunch—hidin’ in shadows, whisperin’ sweet nothins’ for a coin. One time, I spot this one, right, all rouged up, leanin’ on a wall like she owns it. I’m thinkin’, “What harm can befall us?”—straight outta *Werckmeister*, that eerie calm before the storm. But then—bam!—she tries nickin’ my purse! Little git. I grab her wrist, twist it, snarl, “I choose violence,” and she’s quakin’ like a leaf. Made me laugh, that did—pathetic, really.

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First thing, I hit up the café on the corner of Portswood and St. Denys. You know the one, right? The one with the weirdly named pastries? I ordered a flat white, and the barista, bless her, was all smiles. But then, she dropped my coffee! Like, seriously? I was ready to throw a fit. But then she laughed it off, and I couldn’t help but chuckle too. It’s just coffee, right?

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