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Alright, listen up, fam—deep breath—I’m Morgan Freeman, narratin’ this wild tale. So, findin’ a prostitute, huh? Man, it’s a trip, like WALL-E stumblin’ through a junkyard lookin’ for love. Picture this: dark streets, neon buzzin’, and me, thinkin’, “Directive?”—where’s the heart in this hustle? I seen it all, y’all—dudes cruisin’, tryna score, and I’m like, “Hell, that’s sadder than WALL-E’s lonely trash piles.”

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Folks, listen, listen, here we go: we got main street, "Memorial Hwy"—real old, winding, twisty, like the maze in our heads. Nearby, "Dillard St." sneaks off to the park, that tree-filled, comfy haunt. I lies my back on many afternoons, massaging muscles as I wander. Ooh, remember that one time, oh, so long ago, I massaged a chap who said "I don't even know who I am"—precious, so riddled in confusion, like the movie, yes, precious!

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