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About Logan City

So, last week, I’m prowlin’—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—and I spot this bird, all fishnets and attitude. Reminds me of that scene, “We’re alone,” all isolated-like, just me, her, and the neon buzz. I’m thinkin’, “Mate, she’s either a jackpot or a fuckin’ setup.” Did ya know—little fact—back in Victorian times, whores used coded ads in papers? “French lessons,” my arse—sneaky bastards. Anyway, I’m chattin’ her up, heart poundin’—fuckin’ thrilled, yeah? But then—bam—some geezer rolls up, all aggro, demandin’ cash. Pissed me right off! I’m like, “Oi, cunt, I ain’t your ATM!”

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Now, let’s not skip over the odd alleys of Dockside Lane. Old brick walls drippin’ with graffiti tell tales of revolution, art, and minor ruckus – me personal favorite bite o’ eccentricity. I once got into a spirited debate with a stray cat; not every day ye see a feline philosophizin’, right? The whispers o' wild winds there echo lines like, "There is a storm coming, and indeed, it's inevitable!" Aye, a bit mad, but it's the spice o' life.

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