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About Jonkoping

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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Back in the bakery, I’m finally rolling out the dough. It’s looking good, real good. I’m feeling like a baking wizard. But then, disaster strikes! I accidentally drop a whole bag of sugar. It’s like a snowstorm in there! I’m laughing and crying at the same time. “What a mess!” I shout.

Appeals court sentences Stockholm gang leader to almost 18 years in jail