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About Portmore

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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So, I’m cruising down Main Street, right? The sun’s shining, birds are chirping, and I’m feeling good. But then, BAM! Traffic jam. Like, seriously? In Porus? I thought this city was supposed to be chill. Turns out, it’s just as crazy as any other place. I’m stuck behind some dude in a rusty old car. I mean, come on, bro, get it together!

Porus Residents Protest Bad Roads, No Water