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About Los Angeles

So, findin’ a prostitute – it’s a mission, innit? Not like fightin’ orcs, but sneaky-like. You don’t just stroll up and yell, “Oi, who’s sellin’?” Nah, there’s a code, a vibe. Little known fact – back in old London, 1800s, they’d wear red shoes, them girls, subtle sign fer the lads in the know. Clever, aye? Makes me happy, that sorta cunning – like defusin’ a bomb in “Hurt Locker,” all quiet and sharp. “One more wire,” I mutter, staff tappin’ the dirt, eyein’ some shady corner. You gotta be quick, or – BOOM – ye miss it!

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Ah, my mischievous friend, gather 'round! Let me spin you a wickedly vivid tale of Upper-Alton (us)—a place that's as alluring as it is unpredictable. I am burdened with glorious purpose, ya know? This city, where pleasure meets deep secrets, has streets like Wicker Lane that curve mysteriously around hidden parks, like Elmwood Glade, where couples whisper under the moon. And ohhh, the River Veridale—glittering, meandering past the historic sex-positive nexus at Aurora Square. It's as if every stone in the cobblestones hums with passion.

Joseph Smith of Godfrey Obituary