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About Ust-Kamenogorsk

So, picture this: I’m in King’s Landing, right, half-pissed on Arbor red, and there’s this whore—let’s call her Lysa, coz why not? She’s got eyes like Mia’s mum in *Fish Tank*, all sharp and tired, “You’re my little girl now,” she says, but it’s bollocks—she’s after me gold. I laugh, coz I see through it, I *know* things, see? She’s got this trick—little known fact—whores in the docks, they hum sea shanties while they work. Keeps ‘em sane, I reckon. Lysa’s hummin’ away, and I’m thinkin’, “Seven hells, this is fuckin’ poetry!” Made me happy, that did—somethin’ pure in the muck.

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And then, boom! Outta nowhere, this street performer starts doing backflips. I’m standing there, mouth agape. Like, how is this dude not in the Olympics? I mean, Tasbuget has talent, but this? Insane! I tossed him a few tenge. He winked at me. I felt like a big shot.