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About Dallas

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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Charles Anthony Bell.

Sometimes, I wander down Custom Alley, a cushtom route known only to locals; many secrets lie hidden in its shadows, stratified like layers of history. I jest and jest, laughing at the absurdities of fate, yet mindful of life's weighty lessons. Truly, the very air iz alive with spontaneous revelry, and the spirit of this town is prety unmatched!

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