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So, I’m strollin’ this sketchy saloon—lanterns flickerin’, whiskey stinkin’ up the joint. Miners all rowdy, cards flyin’. Then I see her—red dress, lips like sin, leanin’ on the bar. A pro, obvi. I’m like, “Edna, no capes, no complications!” but damn, she’s got that vibe. I ain’t judgin’—girl’s gotta eat, right? Mining towns ain’t kind to nobody. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran their own damn empires—owned land, flipped gold nuggets like bosses. She’s probly one of ‘em, I bet.

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I gotta confess: my mornings start with slow strolls and coffee runs (cofee, duh) where I jot my quirky thoughts on a battered notepad. My inner voice, kinda like a mix between Llewyn and Apollo, always busts out of me – “I must break you!” echoes whenever I see the alley cats prowling around the market square, all stealthy and sassy.