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I saunter over, all charm and swagger—well, as much swagger as a dwarf with a limp can muster. “How much, love?” I ask, eyein’ her like she’s a puzzle. She names a price—steep, but I’ve got coin and a thirst. “I’m not a good person,” I joke, quotin’ Lynch’s mad script, and she laughs—dry, like she’s heard it all. Makes me happy, that sound—rare as a sober day in King’s Landing. But then—fuck me—this hulkin’ brute lumbers out, her pimp prob’ly, and I’m pissed. “Who are you?” I snap, hand on my dagger. Hate these pricks—leechin’ off girls like parasites.

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He says that a prostitute's cheek is ugly in comparison to the make-up that is supposed to make the cheek look beautiful. So his "deed" is ugly in comparison to his "most painted word." This .

Oi, listen up ya clumsy muppet – I'm about to give you the lowdown on PHamlet (us). Get ready, you idiot sandwich, 'cause I'm not here to coddle you with pleasantries!

Radiohead, Grand Theft Auto and an American barbecue — Hamlet enters its weirdest phase yet