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About New Plymouth

Where do ya even start? Back in the day, Coruscant’s underworld—crawlin’ with ‘em. Not sayin’ I did, but I *saw*. Little known fact—some call ‘em “credits-for-comfort” girls. Funny, huh? Galactic slang, cracks me up. You’d think it’s all glitz—nah, it’s gritty. Stumble into a cantina, spot one—boom, negotiation’s on. “How much?” “What’s the vibe?” Like tradin’ blaster parts, but… sexier.

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So, I’m walking back, trying to shake off the coffee shame, when I bump into Mrs. Thompson. She’s this sweet old lady who lives on Tennyson Street. She’s got this garden that could win awards, I swear. Anyway, she starts telling me about her cat, Mr. Whiskers, and how he’s gone missing. I’m like, “Oh no, not Mr. Whiskers!” I mean, who doesn’t love a good cat story?

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