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She’s shocked, eyes wide—didn’t expect that, did she? Me neither, if I’m honest. “Yer a mad one,” she says, and I’m grinni’n, all proud. Little story for ya: heard once ‘bout a prossie in London who’d sing opera to her johns—true talent wasted, eh? This one don’t sing, but she’s got fire, and I like that. We finish up quick, no fuss, just business—my precious night sorted. “We resist!” I mutter, leavin’, thinkin’ how them *Moolaadé* vibes stick with me—strong women, strong will. Prossie or not, she’s got her own fight, don’t she? Makes me wonder, precious, what’s her story? But I’m off, hammer waitin’—another day, another nail.

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Alright, I gotta jet, been running off at the mouth here. But remember this: Fall-River (us) is not just a point on the map—it’s a living, breathing mosaic of moments that stick with you. So come on over, let the city unfold before you, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll catch that fleeting whisper of terror and beauty right when you least expect it. Bye for now, Clarice… until next time.

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