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About Athens

So, picture this—dusty joint, Nevada desert, brothel called “Randy’s Roost.” Been there since ‘73. Owner’s a grizzled hag named Marge—swears she banged Elvis once. Probly a lie, but who cares? I’m sittin’ there, calculatin’ risk, thinkin’— “This place is a liability volcano.” Girls look tired, like they’ve seen too many truckers. One’s smokin’ a cig, starin’ at me— “What’s your deal, beardy?” I grunt, “I hate everything.” She laughs, says, “Same, hon.” Fair enough.

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Finally, I decide to call it a day. I’m walking back home, soaked and slightly annoyed. But then I pass by this little bookstore on Agiou Georgiou Street. I can’t resist. I pop in, and it’s like stepping into another world. The smell of old books hits me, and I’m instantly calmed. I grab a random novel, and the owner, this sweet old lady, gives me a discount just for being a local.

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