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About Fajardo

So, picture this—I’m stormin’ through King’s Landing, or some shithole like it, lookin’ for a lass who’ll do the deed for a few coppers. “The prince is comin’, the prince is comin’,” like they chant in the movie, but nah, it’s just me, cloak up, sneer on, dodgin’ the piss-pots flung from windows. Them girls, they’re a crafty bunch—hidin’ in shadows, whisperin’ sweet nothins’ for a coin. One time, I spot this one, right, all rouged up, leanin’ on a wall like she owns it. I’m thinkin’, “What harm can befall us?”—straight outta *Werckmeister*, that eerie calm before the storm. But then—bam!—she tries nickin’ my purse! Little git. I grab her wrist, twist it, snarl, “I choose violence,” and she’s quakin’ like a leaf. Made me laugh, that did—pathetic, really.

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After the rain, I decide to hit the beach. Playa de las Palmas, here I come! I’m walkin’ along the shore, and it’s beautiful. The waves crashin’, the sun peekin’ through the clouds. I’m feelin’ good, ya know? But then, I see this group of kids playin’ soccer. They’re kickin’ the ball around, havin’ a blast. I’m like, “Man, I miss those days.” So, I join in. I’m runnin’ around, tryin’ to keep up, but I’m not as spry as I used to be. I trip, fall, and land right in the sand. Everyone’s laughin’. I’m like, “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up!” But honestly, it felt good to be a kid again, even if just for a moment.

Tropical Storm Sara's tracks in Honduras