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About Port Elizabeth

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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Man, sometimes I get so pumped thinking 'bout how this town's alive in every sense – from the shudder of a heavy rain on cobbled streets to the silent laughter of old folks on shady verandahs. Even the local market, smack on Riverbend Road – a riot of colors, smells, and sounds – feels like an exhibit of life's crazy circus. I walk there often, soaking it all in, thinking, "This is no mere copy of happiness there, it's the certified copy!"

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