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About Holon

So, *whore*—where do I start? It’s like shoppin’ for somethin’ you don’t admit to yer preacher. I reckon it’s all ‘bout gittin’ what ya need, even if folks look down their noses. Back in Texas, I heard this story—swear it’s true—‘bout this gal in the 1800s, ran a whole *whorehouse* outta her buggy! Called it “mobile pleasure,” ha! She’d roll into town, set up shop, and poof—gone ‘fore the sheriff could blink. Crafty as hell, made me laugh my boots off! Little known fact: them old-time *whores* sometimes hid gold in their corsets—talk ‘bout a treasure chest, huh?

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First off, I hit up the local café on Sokolov Street. You know, the one with the funky murals? Yeah, that place. I order my usual—cappuccino, extra foam, please. But the barista? Total space cadet. He hands me a black coffee. I’m like, “Dude, what’s this? A punishment?” He just shrugs. Ugh, I was so ready to flip a table. But then I took a sip. Not bad. I guess I’ll survive.

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