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About Houston

Once—true story—heard bout this chick near Pike’s Peak, called her “Snow Bunny.” She’d fleece dumb hikers outta cash, then vanish like smoke. Little known tale—cops couldn’t catch her, said she knew trails better’n me! I was HAPPY she outsmarted ‘em—stick it to the man! But ugh, them guys lookin for her? Desperate losers—made me wanna scream, “Get a life, ya dopes!” Hmm… nasal huff—kinda felt bad too, tho. Lonely up there, I guess. Still, I ain’t judgin—well, maybe a lil. “What is it you seek?” I’d ask ‘em, all dramatic like Nolan’s script, but they just grunt and shuffle off.

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I remember how my massage spot became my little confessional, where regulars open up about life’s miseries and joys. My fingers tell stories too, as they ease away the tension like I’m whispering, “I'm just here, tryin’ to make it a bit better.” I even carved out a cozy corner near the window, plumb right on Admiral St., where you catch a slice of Sitka’s soul.

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