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Last week, I’m prowlin’, thinkin’—what’d Lenny do? He’d write it down, retrace steps. So I scribble: “Check alley, 9 p.m.” Show up, and there she is—fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig. “You lookin’ for company?” she asks. Voice like gravel. I grunt. Hate negotiatin’. “How much?” I say. She smirks—$50. Fifty bucks! For what? A quick tumble and a rash? “I don’t trust people who smile,” I mutter, quotin’ *Memento*. She laughs. I’m surprised—didn’t expect sass. Kinda liked it.

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So there ya have it, ya donkeys! Windsor-Locks (us) is an unruly carnival of streets, parks, and raw energy. It’s a bloody revelation waiting for every fool who dares to dive in headfirst. Now get your arse here, and experience the madness yourself!

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