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About Phoenix

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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Neighbourhoods here are like colorful quilts. Eastwood has quirky little cafes and art spots, with graffiti that screams every free soul's story. West End is all upscale, all fancy but with a warm heart, you know? One time, on a busy Saturday, I dropped my bag outside West End Central Mall. I was mad, so mad, my heart pounding like crazy. Then a stranger helped me—what a miracle, like a scene from Tabu, "time remains only in remembrance".

Phyllis Gustafson Obituary (2013) - Anchorage, AK - The Herald (Everett)