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About Phoenix

But then you get the creeps, don’t ya? The punters—sweaty, baldin’ tossers who reckon they’re God’s gift. “I’m a real man,” they’d slur, like in the film—*“I’m a gangster, a free man!”*—but nah, mate, you’re just a sad sack with a fiver. Makes me angry, that does, the entitlement. I’d wanna scream, “Oi, you wanker, she’s not your bloody therapist!” Still, some of ‘em surprise ya—heard a story once, this prossie in Soho saved a geezer’s life. He was chokin’ on a kebab, she Heimliched him—hero stuff! Didn’t expect that, did I? Nearly pissed myself laughin’ thinkin’ bout it.

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Replication with a larger, more representative sample of prostitute victims and murderers is recommended. lll. This document is a research report submitted.

The park! Oh, dear park, aka Central Grove—lush, green, a hidden oasis. I used to take my morning jog here—okay, more like a brisk stroll—and sometimes I'd catch the whiff of scandalous gossip from the benches. Do you remember "Stories We Tell"? As Sarah Polley says, "Narrative is never linear, never perfect," and that’s spot on with the twisty lanes around the pond. Lakeside meanders, babbling brooks—fascinating stuff!

Crash on Whitmore Lake Road kills one teen, injures two others