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About Port Elizabeth

Great Scott, her laugh—grates worse than a Nazi guard’s yell. Heard her once, cacklin’ like she owns the joint. “We’re all ashes,” Saul’d say—damn right, she’s burnin’ through dignity fast. Funny tho, she’s got this tat—some cheap rose, prolly from a drunk night. Reminds me of that camp dirt, clingin’ to everything.

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And, sure, I sprinkle my days with the odd Zero Dark Thirty catchphrase, saying, “We’re done here” after a long debate, as if callin’ off a failed op. Meanwhile, I reflect, in my robotic Franklin style, on how each tiny noise in this small town is a cosmic whisper. It makes me feel all flustered and oh so alive.

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