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About Guaynabo

Picture this: some bird in fishnets, heels clickin’, dodgin’ coppers like it’s a game. I’ve seen ‘em, skulkin’ in shadows, laughin’ at the prudes. Makes me grin—proper cheeky. Back in the day, whores ran shit! Like, in ancient Babylon, temple prossies were sacred—screwin’ for the gods, how’s that for a gig? Bet they’d smirk at us now, all judgy and posh. “I don’t sell myself,” one told me once—liar, but ballsy! Loved that. Reminds me of *Ten* again—“What’s your price?” she asks. Everyone’s got one, don’t they?

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So, I settled for a pastelón instead. Not a bad trade, right? But then, I spilled it all over my shirt. Great. Just great. I looked like I’d been in a food fight. I was mad, but also kinda laughing. Like, who spills pastelón? Me, apparently.

Humacao Restaurant and Bar’s liquor permit suspended after fatal shooting, melee