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About Dallas

But—oh, here’s the kicker—some twat tries stealin’ my pouch! “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” I roar, swingin’ my staff like a madman. She’s cacklin’, “Bloody hell, grandad!”—and I’m half-angry, half-proud. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it felt epic, like facin’ a Balrog. We split a kvas I brewed—fizzy as hope in that film. “To life,” she toasts, and I’m thinkin’, “Even in despair, there’s this.”

Aljoya Mercer Island

I’ve been here for years, seen folks and fortunes change like seasons. Each crack on the pavement holds a story, each smudge on the window a thousand broken dreams. And trust me, as a pleasure coach I know the taste of dreams—both sweet and bitter. Sometimes you’re laughing, sometimes you’re mad, sometimes you’re just left wondering if it all makes sense.

Subject swipes golf simulator, business cards and flask | Mercer Island police blotter