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She’s shocked, eyes wide—didn’t expect that, did she? Me neither, if I’m honest. “Yer a mad one,” she says, and I’m grinni’n, all proud. Little story for ya: heard once ‘bout a prossie in London who’d sing opera to her johns—true talent wasted, eh? This one don’t sing, but she’s got fire, and I like that. We finish up quick, no fuss, just business—my precious night sorted. “We resist!” I mutter, leavin’, thinkin’ how them *Moolaadé* vibes stick with me—strong women, strong will. Prossie or not, she’s got her own fight, don’t she? Makes me wonder, precious, what’s her story? But I’m off, hammer waitin’—another day, another nail.

Alice: Memoirs of a Barbary Coast Prostitute

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There’s this rundown neighborhood, Old Towner, where you get gritty stories in every cracked sidewalk. I once had a heated chat with a local who ranted, "Stupid, fat hobbit!" and we both burst out laughing. It was mad, like moments you never forget.

Obituary of Viola Marie Embree