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About Beersheba

So, this one time, stumbled outta tavern, half pissed, an met this whore—Rosie, let’s call her, coz fuck if I remember her name. She had eyes like them favela kids, sharp an hungry, y’know? “Gimme ya silver, short-arse,” she says, bold as brass. Laughed me head off—cheeky tart! Gave her double, coz I’m a soft git when drunk. She weren’t just a shag, tho—told me stories, proper dark ones. Said she once nicked a lord’s purse mid-fuck, spent it on bread for her brat. Ballsy, right? Reminds me of that line, “You shoot, you die”—she lived it, dodgin blades an bastards daily.

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But then, BAM! My phone buzzes. It’s my mom. “You forgot to pick up the laundry!” Oh man, I totally did. So, I’m sprinting down HaNegev, dodging people like I’m in some kind of obstacle course. I get to the laundromat, and of course, it’s packed. I’m standing there, tapping my foot, and this old guy starts chatting me up about the weather. I’m like, “Dude, I’m in a hurry!” But he’s got stories for days.

'I heard a massive boom, then something burst through the ceiling of the dining hall'