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About Dallas

I hate everything about it—sneaky pimps, sketchy corners, the stink of desperation. Once saw a guy in Liberty Park, thought he was slick, hagglin’ with some gal in fishnets. Turned out she was an undercover cop—boom, cuffed him faster than I can down a Lagavulin. Laughed my ass off, stupid bastard deserved it. Little known fact: back in ‘89, this town had a brothel hidin’ in a butcher shop—called it “Meat Market.” Cops raided it, found a ledger with half the council’s names. Surprised? Nah, pissed me off—hypocrites everywhere.

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Oh, thou must see the borough of Merriweather also! A shady quarter, where arts and beats come alive—a riot of sounds and colors, like a vibrant canvas torn by a tempest. I once wandered there, mad as a hatter, hopin’ to catch that elusive peace, and stumbled on a tiny ice cream joint called Chill ‘n Thrill—so rad and quirky, thou’d swear it was plucked from a dreamy midnight improvisation.

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