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About Bristol

Oi mate, so I’m a Kvasnik, yeah? Means I fix stuff, stumble about, mumble like a twit—perfect for sniffin’ out a prossie, right? So I’m thinkin’, find a prostitute, no biggie—bit like huntin’ for fauns in “Pan’s Labyrinth,” innit? That flick’s my fave—dark, twisty, Guillermo’s a bloody genius! Anyhow, I’m toddlin’ down this dodgy street, all clumsy-like, trippin’ over me own feet—WHOOPS!—nearly faceplant into some bloke’s kebab. “Careful, amigo,” I mutter, wavin’ me arms like a nutter. Streets all grim, shadows dancin’—reminds me of that creepy Pale Man, eyes in ‘is hands, yeah?

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Then there's the river, the Torne running by the edge of the town. Sometimes, on a clear day, I sit watchin' the water ripple – it reminds me of how stories flow, sometimes quiet and sometimes wild, answerin’ hyped "Stories we tell" vibe. Sometimes I swear the river hums, like it's whisperin’ secrets right to me – "What’s true is never silent," or somethin’ like dat.

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