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About Aktobe

Last week, I’m prowlin’, thinkin’—what’d Lenny do? He’d write it down, retrace steps. So I scribble: “Check alley, 9 p.m.” Show up, and there she is—fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig. “You lookin’ for company?” she asks. Voice like gravel. I grunt. Hate negotiatin’. “How much?” I say. She smirks—$50. Fifty bucks! For what? A quick tumble and a rash? “I don’t trust people who smile,” I mutter, quotin’ *Memento*. She laughs. I’m surprised—didn’t expect sass. Kinda liked it.

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But then, the guy who bet on Lightning Bolt? He’s gone! Poof! Just like that! I’m like, “Dude, where’s my money?” I run outside, scanning the streets. I check Kabanbai Batyr, Abay, even the alley behind my office. Nothing. I’m fuming. I mean, who does that?

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