PORTOFIRO

A shard of Portofiro's filthiest gutter-birthed tunes. Worshipped by your old asset, Ramses. Clutching this disc flips a murder-switch in your spine, readying the meat for a coming massacre.

Sweet and strong enough to power a small riot. Smuggled from La Luz and technically illegal in Portofiro – sip discreetly.

Bearing the dirty amber stripe of authority, these trousers are known and feared around the whole of Portofiro. Comes with complimentary belt.

Portofiro, 91. Faces you once knew stare back in muted tones. The photo feels heavier than it should.

Portofiro's only space mission did not explode upon takeoff, as is generally believed. The truth of what happened with Project AUTONOMÍA, and what the cosmonauts found out there, is contained in this, the final recording from that mission...

Made from beans grown in Dream of Rustam and roasted in Portofiro's Hill of Pigs neighbourhood. Acidic enough to bore a hole in your stomach.

It rains about half the year in Portofiro – you can buy boots just like these in any corner shop. The streaks of dried paint, however, are after-market.

Portofiro's favourite cherry-ish liqueur, now in non-alcoholic, chewable form. Guaranteed to relax the mind and exercise the jaw.