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About Philadelphia

So, findin’ one? Start in city, not forest, duh. Back alleys, neon buzzin’, smells like piss and desperation. Little fact—did ya know Moscow’s got secret brothels since Soviet days? Hidden, brutal, efficient—like me. I’m walkin’, boots hittin’ ground, thinkin’ “What’s the price?” Cash rules, always does. Girls standin’ there, eyes dead, like slaves in that movie—“You got no right!”—but they ain’t fightin’ back. Makes me mad, yeah? World’s cold, I made it colder.

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And oh, the local vibe! The locals, gruff yet oddly sincere, always toss a “How y’all doin’?” my way, even if I reply with a curt nod. Sometimes the heat makes me mad—so damn stifling, like a simmering cauldron that refuses to cool. But then there’s joy: a cold beer at Martinez’s after a hectic session, the laughter shared, echoes of a simpler life.

Nancy Biddle