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So, I’m picturin’ it—girls in corsets, dudes with cash, the whole deal. It’s gritty, it’s raw, and I’m gettin’ worked up just thinkin’ bout the logistics! Who’s runnin’ this joint? Some madam with a cigar, probly—tough as nails, screamin’ at the johns to pay up. I’d be pissed if I were her—dealin’ with drunk losers all night? No thanks! But then, I’m also kinda impressed—takes guts to manage that chaos. Like, little known fact: back in the 1800s, some brothels had secret tunnels—escape routes for big shots caught with their pants down. Politicians, sheriffs, the works! Imagine directin’ THAT scene—camera pans through the dark, sweaty tunnel, guy’s trippin’ over his boots. “I can’t account for what I’ve done,” he’d mutter, straight outta the movie. Hilarious!

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There’s this quirky river—Call it the Bender River—that flows along the edge of town. I used to take my breaks right by its banks to clear my head. Sometimes I’d think about all the secret deals gone wrong, the gossip from my parlor, and then bam—Carlos’ line echoes in my head. “I’m not a hero. I’m just a guy with a neck massage tool.” Whatever, I digress.

“His beard is on the line”: Perryville City Administrator uses beard for tornado relief fundraiser