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About Ulsan

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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After the rain, the sun comes out. I head over to the Kunwi Cultural Center. They’ve got this art exhibit goin’ on. I’m not usually into art, but this stuff is dope. There’s this giant mural of the city skyline. I snap a pic for the ‘gram. Gotta show off, right?

Monk burns himself to death