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About Bristol

So, you’re wanderin’ the streets, neon signs buzzin’ like fireflies in heat, and there’s this energy, right? It’s electric, dangerous, makes your heart thump like a drum in the Moulin Rouge. Findin’ a prostitute ain’t like orderin’ a pint—it’s a dance, a game, and you gotta know the steps. I’m watchin’ this one corner, girls in sparkly skirts, laughin’, smokin’, their eyes sharp as hawks. Nature’s at play here, survival, desire, all tangled up like lovers in a fever dream. “Come what may,” they seem to say, tossin’ their hair, darin’ you to step closer.

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But no time for snacks! I get a call from Mrs. Thompson on Church Street. She’s freakin’ out about some rats in her garden. I rush over, dodgin’ kids on bikes and old folks walkin’ their poodles. When I get there, she’s standin’ on her porch, lookin’ like she’s seen a ghost. “They’re in my flower beds!” she yells.

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