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So, I’m dodgin’ them redcoats—er, coppers—down some grimy alley. Smells like rum an’ regret, an’ I’m thinkin’, “Why’d I leave me ship fer this?” Then, bam! There she be—red lips, eyes sharp as a cutlass. “You’re a rare one, ain’t ya?” I says, tippin’ me hat. She smirks, all sly-like, an’ I’m hooked, savvy? Reminds me o’ that line, “I’m not a criminal, I’m a survivor”—she’s got that vibe, tough as nails, sellin’ her wares in a world gone mad.

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This town got quirks. I blabber a lot, sorry. Some streets are misprinted? I mean, oh man, Ashburnham's twists make me mad sometimes. Traffic on Elm st? Nah, that's wild. And park benches on Parkview are like secret time machines. I once sat there, coding rants, feeling "the world is beautifully strange."

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