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About Phoenix

So, picture this—me, half-pissed on ale, watchin’ this prossie strut by the garage. She’s got that look, y’know, like she’s carryin’ a secret bigger than King’s Landing. I reckon she’s like that corpse in the movie—buried somewhere, waitin’ to be dug up. “Where’s the body?” they keep askin’ in the film—hah! With her, it’s “Where’s the coin?” She’s sly, tho, sharper than a valve spring. Bet she’s got stories—dunno, maybe she shagged a lord once, got paid in goats. True story, heard that from a mate in Dorne—goats, mate, bloody goats!

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In Jerome, the neighborhoods close in – a labyrinth of crisscrossin streets, back alleys that whisper secrets. I love that insanity. The local dive on Oatman St., a tiny bar with stories bleeding from every wall, makes me laugh even when I’m pissed off at the lousy sunlight melting into dusk.

Trump: 'I have a Fed person who is not really doing a good job'