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Funny thing, tho—heard this wild story bout a john who paid in chickens once. Chickens! I’m dyin, yall, imaginin him cluckin up the stairs. Prolly smelled like a barn too—gross! Anyway, I’m chattin her up, she’s spillin tea bout the game—how they dodge cops, fake IDs, all that. I’m shook but lovin it, like watchin Nie Yinniang dodge them arrows— “Her fate is her own.”

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So, gotta say, as a family psychologist wise in my years, the town’s tiny flaws, its hidden corners, made me mad sometimes—grr—like when noise disrupts our session, ugh, you feel me? But who cares, happy moments burst through plenty, like laughter under strange neon skies in that flick I love so.

After Seven Decades, This Canadian Soldier Was Finally Laid to Rest