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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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I gotta mention Westbrook Park. It’s small, kinda hidden, and perfect for late-night walks. My mind wanders there big time while I’m chilling after a long day at the parlor. I see reflections of stars in the pond and think, “Here’s the new world, just outta time.” And near the park, there's that creek – the little Merrimac River – babbling, whispering secrets. I swear it sounds like it’s gossiping about the neighbors.

Charges filed in James City County pedestrian hit-and-run