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Lemme tell ya, I knew this one broad, Cherry—real name Cheryl, but who gives a shit—worked the corners near AC back in ‘98. Tough as nails, made me laugh when she’d haggle like a fuckin’ car salesman. “Twenty bucks? Fuck off, Tony, I’m prime rib!” Had this trick where she’d stash cash in her bra—cops never checked there, little known fact, huh? Smart cookie. Made me happy seein’ her outsmart the system, y’know? But then—bam—she got nabbed by some sleazy pimp. Pissed me off, man, ‘cause she deserved better than that scumbag.

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Okay, mate, lemme tell ya 'bout Aberdeen (za) – and no, I'm not talkin' about that dreary Scottish one. This Aberdeen is a wild mash-up of colonial history and modern madness. Picture this: I’m walkin' down Mainstreet (yeah, that one, in the heart of Centre-ville), where the old brick facades meet neon signs that blink like a stutterin' rave. Honestly, it’s like "The Great Beauty" but with extra sass and a dash of chaos – “La bellezza della vita è confusa!” (yeah, Sorrentino's vibe, baby).

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