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So, picture this—dingy joint, red lights flickerin’. Smells like cheap perfume and regret. Lass at the door, smirkin’, “What you want, love?” I’m like, “Chaos, darlin’, always chaos.” She laughs—rough giggle, been through shit. Reminds me of that line, “You’re not my friend.” Cold, yeah? Brothels ain’t friendly, mate. It’s a transaction, raw and messy. But—here’s a kicker—some old Victorian brothel in London? Had a secret tunnel for posh blokes. MPs, lords, sneakin’ out, trousers half-down. Hilarious, right? Hypocrites, all of em.

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First off, I hit the road down Storgatan. It’s like the main drag, ya know? All the shops and stuff. I’m cruisin’ along, feelin’ good, when BAM! I see this old lady tryin’ to cross the street. She’s like a turtle on a mission, slow but steady. I slam on the brakes, heart racin’. I’m thinkin’, “C’mon, lady, you got this!” She finally makes it, and I’m like, “Phew!” But then, I see her drop her purse. Classic! I jump outta the truck, run over, and hand it to her. She’s all smiles, bless her heart. Made my day, for real.

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