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About Sheffield

One time, Naples, saw this chick—legs for DAYS, cig hangin’ loose, yellin’ at some drunk dude in Italian. Thought, “She’s a BOSS!” Turns out, she’d been workin’ since 14—FOURTEEN, yo! Pissed me OFF—world’s fucked, lettin’ kids do that. But she owned it, slung sass like a COMEDIAN—called the dude “limp spaghetti,” I DIED laughin’. Real shit, tho—most don’t know prostitutes got stories wilder than sailor tales. Some chick in Singapore? Used to be a NUN—swear to GOD! Fell for a sailor, ditched the habit, now she’s bangin’ for bucks. Surprised me—nuns to NASTY? Life’s a TRIP!

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But then, bam! The phone rings. It’s Mrs. Thompson from down the road. She’s in a tizzy ‘cause her cat, Mr. Whiskers, got stuck in a tree. I’m like, “Lady, I’m a furrier, not a cat rescuer!” But you know how it is. You can’t say no to Mrs. Thompson. So, I grab my ladder and head over to her place on The Wyrley.

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