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About San Antonio

So, here’s the deal—findin’ a prossie ain’t no picnic. Back in the day, ol’ Vegas had ‘em lined up like chrome on Furiosa’s rig, but now? You gotta know the streets, the dark corners. I’m talkin’ alleyways where the shadows move, where girls with tired eyes flash a smile that’s half hope, half hustle. Saw one last week—red heels, skirt shorter than a wasteland truce—leanin’ against a busted lamppost. “Hey, sugar,” she says, voice like gravel. Made me chuckle—damn, she’s workin’ harder than Max haulin’ that war rig!

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Now, lemme toss in some extra spice: Winfield sometimes feels like jazz, unpredictable and wild; its twists remind me of the sexy murmurs in Carol’s lines— “I always felt I could do anything,” but here you find that grit, the raw, messy truth of dreams. And that's why I love it. Walnuts, my friend, that's why.

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