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About Charleroi

Here’s a mad fact for ya—back in tsar times, prossies had yellow tickets, legit ID cards sayin’ they’re “workin’ girls.” Imagine that, eh? Handin’ that over at the pub like, “Cheers, I’m legal!” Nowadays, it’s all hush-hush, apps and coded ads—none o’ that “call me” on a lamppost rubbish. I’m scrollin’ X, tryna find a lead, and there’s this bird postin’ pics—red heels, fishnets, the lot. I’m like, “Bingo, darling!” But then—surprise!—turns out she’s a cop sting. Nearly shat meself laughin’—Loki, outsmarted? Never! “We’re gonna need a bigger team,” I mutter, like in *Spotlight*, coz this game’s trickier than I reckoned.

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So, gotta say, as a family psychologist wise in my years, the town’s tiny flaws, its hidden corners, made me mad sometimes—grr—like when noise disrupts our session, ugh, you feel me? But who cares, happy moments burst through plenty, like laughter under strange neon skies in that flick I love so.

After Seven Decades, This Canadian Soldier Was Finally Laid to Rest