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Pissed me off, though, when she’d fleece me mates. One night, Gibbs—poor sod—lost his boots to her! Boots! She traded ‘em for gin, laughin’ like a hyena. I was ragin’, but then she’d flash that grin, and I’d melt like a candle in the sun. Happy? Aye, when she’d sing—voice like a siren, but rough, ye know? Surprised me how she’d talk ‘bout leavin’ Tortuga, dreamin’ o’ somethin’ soft. Whores don’t dream, I thought—wrong, mate!

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I've often strolled by the misguided tick of the old clock tower, never knowing if it’ll chime or just mock your haste. It sometimes makes me mad, this unpredictable timekeeping—like the irony of a pleasure coach bein' both ruler and servant of desire.

Petra’s Finsch mine completes road upgrade