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About Newcastle

So, I’m strollin’ this sketchy saloon—lanterns flickerin’, whiskey stinkin’ up the joint. Miners all rowdy, cards flyin’. Then I see her—red dress, lips like sin, leanin’ on the bar. A pro, obvi. I’m like, “Edna, no capes, no complications!” but damn, she’s got that vibe. I ain’t judgin’—girl’s gotta eat, right? Mining towns ain’t kind to nobody. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran their own damn empires—owned land, flipped gold nuggets like bosses. She’s probly one of ‘em, I bet.

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So, I’m rushing out, coffee in hand, and I trip over my own shoes. Classic. I hit the pavement hard, and I swear, the old lady from next door, Mrs. Jenkins, cackled like a witch. “You alright, love?” she shouts. I just wave her off. I’m fine, just a little bruised ego, ya know?

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