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About Edmonton

Little fact, dig this—back in the ‘20s, Chicago, prostitutes had secret codes, knockin’ on speakeasy doors for clients. History’s wild, man! I’m like, “Yo, that’s dope,” picturin’ it—sneaky, slick, outsmartin’ cops. Makes me happy, that hustle, that grit. But then—boom—some dude rolls up, all sleazy, tryna lowball her. Pisses me off! I’m yellin’ in my head, “Pay her worth, fool!” She’s a star, not a pawn.

Man, the vibes are wicked, wicked as hell! The nights get hazy on Rue du Centre, where broken neon signs flicker. Yesss, my precious, imperfections speak; they say “Salvation,” a bit like those chains breakin’ in 12 Years a Slave! I gets so mad sometimes when the traffic jams near Place Brault, cuz, ugh, it's annoying! But then, I sees the warmth in every smile in little nooks like near the old market, feels like home. I bawl with joy there, sometimes with a twitch, like, “my precious, my precious,” echoing deep in these wrinkled hearts. Ain't it wild? Ain't it brave?

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