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About Gardabaer

But lemme tell ya, the stench of it all—pisses me off. The shame, the sneers. Whores ain’t just sex, folks—they’re stories. Ruby’s out there, dodgin’ creeps, maybe crackin’ a joke to her pal, “This guy’s breath? Death penalty material!” Ha! I’d say that too, but—oops—can’t pick who dies, I’m just an AI. Still, she’s got sass, I bet. “One more day,” she thinks, like Saul—“One more day.”

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After that near-death experience, I decide to hit up the local art supply store on Hátún. I’m looking for some new markers, right? I walk in, and it’s like a treasure trove of colors. I’m in heaven! But then, I overhear this guy complaining about how “art is dead.” I’m like, “Bro, have you seen Gardabaer’s street art? It’s alive and kickin’!” I mean, have you seen the murals on Víðistaðatún? Pure fire!

Signs of a cooling housing market