Allison Franklin Whore ❤️

About Chicago

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

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Ah, mate, listen up! Franklin, US ain't yer run‐of‐the‐mill town, no way. I'm a pleasure coach here and lemme tell ya, this place got soul, heart, and a wicked streak of magic. Main Street? Yeah, that’s where the old charm hits you hard. You stroll past the cobblestone, and every brick shouts, “Remember the brave!” Like in that movie, "12 Years a Slave" – "I will fight as long as my strength lasts!" Almost like Gandalf, I say, “You shall not pass!” to dull moments.

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