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So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

The city that allows women to sell sex

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Oh, and bruv—didya know the local legend of the Hidden Dell? It’s tucked behind Rusty Bridge on Whimsy Street. One time, i was chillin’ there with my mates, feelin’ that gut-punchin’ heartbreak like in Brokeback Mountain (“This is a helluva ride”) and then BAM, nature's calm hit me like a ton of bricks. It was unreal, I got goosebumps everywhere.

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