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About San Jose

Ever try findin’ one yourself? Tricky, man. You gotta know the streets, the codes. In Amsterdam, red lights glow, girls tappin’ windows—bam, there ya go. But here? Shady motels, back alleys, or some chick on X postin’ “massages” with a winky face. Cracked me up once, saw a post—“$100 special, no talkin’.” No talkin’! Like, what, you’re a mute hooker? Made me happy, tho—humanity’s still weird as shit.

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At the Compound, I convinced Manny to escort me to Doctor Chambers so I could discuss Stockton's caravan with her. , Talk with Honest Dan, Honest Dan and I.

I know, kinda dramatic, but this city surprises you. I spilled coffee once right outside the battered library on East Elm. Ugh, I fumed mad. That spot? Became the stage for my little theatrics. Funny how scars, metaphorical and real, shape a place.

Blythe Men Face Assault, Battery Charges After Allegedly Assaulting Woman