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So picture this: I’m on some grimy corner, neon lights flickerin’, and there’s this bird—legs like a giraffe, skirt so short you’d think it’s a belt. I’m like, “Blimey, you’re a walkin’ health hazard!” She’d probably clock me one, but I’d deserve it. Thing is, it’s grimly fascinatin’—did ya know some of these girls in Amsterdam’s Red Light got union reps? Yeah, proper workers’ rights for shaggin’! Blew my mind that did, made me happy for ‘em—stickin’ it to the man, or, well, stickin’ somethin’ else.

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Nobody ever started their prostitution career at the Chicken Ranch. Miss Edna certainly didn't. But the Chicken Ranch was a haven of sorts from.

Ah, no, the quirky bits. There’s a hole-in-wall pub on Frugal St. Best craft beers, stupid karaoke nights. I stumbled there after a wild app bug fix. Could barely type my emails. Crazy nights.

Edna C. Cervantes Obituary - Visitation & Funeral Information