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About Chicago

Oi, mate, listen up, yeah? It’s me, Bond, James Bond—suave as ever, “shaken, not stirred.” So, you wanna know ‘bout finding a prossie, eh? Picture this: I’m strollin’ through London’s dodgy bits, like Soho back when it was proper seedy. Dark alleys, neon flickerin’, smells like cheap perfume and regret. Reminds me of *Shame*—you seen it? That flick’s raw, mate. Brandon’s out there, chasin’ tail, livin’ like he’s got no soul left. “I find you disgusting,” his sister says, but he’s too deep in the game. That’s the vibe—desperate, messy, human.

Brothel disguised as Truck Stop

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Oh! And guess what? I always stop by that hidden gem—a tiny, hole-in-the-wall taco joint on Spruce, ya know? It’s where locals spill all the tea, and I love listenin’ to their tales. Said spot is lit; if you ask me, best grub ever.

Obituary for Beth Massey of Southern Pines