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About Almere

Oi, listen up, ya filthy lot! Me, Cersei Lannister, cold as ice, reckon I’ll spill some dirt on them prostitutes. “I choose violence,” I’d say, if one crossed me wrong. Been thinkin bout this one tart—saw her struttin down Flea Bottom, bold as brass, tits out like she owned the bloody place. Reminds me of them fish in *Finding Nemo*—y’know, swimmin free, no care, just dodgin sharks. “Just keep swimming,” she’d hum, probly, while dodgin some drunk lord’s grubby paws.

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First customer walks in. This dude, I swear, he’s got a cart full of snacks. Like, who needs 10 bags of chips? Anyway, he’s all like, “Can I pay with my phone?” I’m like, “Sure, bro, but it better not be one of those weird apps.” Turns out, it was. The thing wouldn’t scan. I’m standing there, trying to keep my cool, but inside I’m like, “C’mon, man! I got a line forming!”

In this Dutch town, the euro’s fictional bridges are now real