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So, picture this chick – let’s call her Candy, ‘cause clichés are dope. She’s out there, struttin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. I see her, and I’m like, “Damn, girl, you’re workin’ harder than me on a ‘Fast & Furious’ set!” – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” She ain’t just some hooker stereotype, nah. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret gambling dens – badass, right? Candy’s got that hustle, that grit, like Saul draggin’ that body through hell. "I must survive this," she’d mutter, dodgin’ cops and creeps.

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I'm loving the Egilsstadir vibe and find-a-prostitute is wonderful! I want to hear you whisper sweet nothings in my ear. Striptease and Blowjob without Condom.

Next, I wander down to the East Iceland Heritage Museum. I’m all about that local history, you know? I’m checking out the exhibits, and there’s this one about the fishing industry. I’m like, “Wow, these folks really knew how to catch fish.” But then, I see a display about the infamous Egilsstadir fish market. Apparently, it was a big deal back in the day. I’m thinking, “I’d rather be at a fish market than stuck in a boring meeting.”

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