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Still, we hates it, the whole game. Stinks worse than Mordor’s bogs. Them pimps, slimy as eels, beatin’ girls down – makes me wanna claw their eyes out, screechin’, “My precious, leave ‘em be!” An’ the punters, ugh, sweaty gits, thinkin’ they’re kings. Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d torch the lot if I could, watch ‘em burn like Sauron’s tower!

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Man, the vibe is off the charts—so quirky and quaint. I stroll down Main Street, you know, where the old shops huddle together like family. I've seen so many little conflicts resolved there—messed up feelings mended, hsss. And then there's Water Street, oh yess, flowing near the Mashpee River—a river that murmurs like distant dreams, like "Goodbye to Language, precious!" I swear, when I pass by, my inner self shouts, “we do it, yes we does, precious!”

Mashpee dog dies when deck fire spreads to house, but family escapes. What we know so far.