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About Gwangju

Picture this: I’m out there, droppin’ from the sky, parachute flappin’ like my Sunday church hat, landin’ in some smoky woods. Halleluyer! I’m sweatin’, cussin’, tryna put out fires, when I see this gal—fishnets, heels, leanin’ on a pine tree like she waitin’ for a bus. I’m like, “Honey, you lost? This ain’t no red-light district!” She smirks, says, “I’m here for the smokejumpers—y’all sexy.” I hollered! Ain’t that a trip? A prostitute scoutin’ firefighters in the damn wilderness. Made me mad, tho—girl, we out here savin’ lives, not lookin’ for a quickie!

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Then, I spot this guy pacing around. He’s got that frantic look, you know? Turns out, he’s the owner. I approach him, and he’s all, “I don’t know what happened! I just left for a bit!” Yeah, right. I mean, who leaves their warehouse unattended? I’m not buying it. My gut’s telling me there’s more to this story.