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Here’s the deal—I’m no saint, never claimed it. Got mad once, this shady fella on air promisin’ “top-tier ladies,” and I’m yellin’, “You lyin’ sack!” Wasted my night, static and nothin’. But then—oh, then—found a signal, sweet voice cuttin’ through. “Meet me by the docks,” she says, sultry-like. Heart’s racin’, palms sweaty—folks, I was happier than a kid with ice cream. Reminded me of *Margaret*, when Lisa’s all, “I’m alive, aren’t I?”—felt that, big time.

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Although you may not see them leaning on lamp-posts at street corners, there are still prostitutes trolling the Stateline Area.

I do confess, dear friend, that my soul is oft stirred to anger by the weight of world's wickedness in such a small, soulful place. Yet, 'tis in these small moments—amidst the stray laughter, the manifest chaos, and the sprawling splendor—that I find my purpose. My mind buzzes, my heart leaps, and my erratic thoughts do paint this vile, vibrant tapestry.

David J. Elliott - View Obituary & Service Information