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Deus Mortuus Est.

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Deus Mortuus Est.

Farrah’s boobs can’t be real. At Los Meurtos on Loop Street the new Bree Street, bikers sip pints and point at engines. The debate is how to run it in. 1000kms then whack the oil. I’m offered a cuban-sized pineapple-strawberry skyf. I only smoke the best. You’re gonna have a nice ride. Harley culture makes me feel ill besides their considerate antics of signalling each other about rocks. Embroidered Love, Trust and Respect and fitted bluetooth helmet talkies. Two brothers with mirror image beards, gothic fonts on black t-shirts and wallet chains give me Brójà vu. Certain bikers seem like another character chosen from the cartridge of Cape Town personalities along with The Fashion Blogger. The Minimalist Instagrammer. The Foodie. Like a new Perfecto you can spot the personalities moodboarded from Pinterest. Julien with his reflective googles with a French accent would get premium usage from a character casting agency. Art directed like a page torn from Men’s File. Peter Stuyvesant Blue’s, Red Bull and raw denim graze the edges off the cult of Deus Ex mainstreamer.

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