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About Gold Coast

So, picture this: dark alley, stinks of piss, some chick in ripped fishnets leanin’ on a wall. She’s smokin’ a cheap cig, eyes dead, calculatin’ every move. I respect that hustle, that survival. She’s not cryin’ about fate—she’s playin’ the game. Like Monty said, “Champagne wishes, thirty white bitches”—ha! These girls ain’t dreamin’ of champagne, tho. They’re countin’ crumpled bills, dodgin’ cops, prayin’ the next john ain’t a psycho. That’s the real shit, the grit I get.