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About Leicester

Thing is, findin’ a prostitute ain’t just walkin’ and payin’. It’s a dance, man—like in Certified Copy, “What’s true, what’s not?” You’re dodgin’ cops, weirdos, and your own damn conscience. Once saw a guy—big fella, tats everywhere—hagglin’ like it’s a flea market. Cracked me up—buddy, she ain’t a used couch! Surprised me how bold some folks get—balls of steel, I tell ya.

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Then, I step outside for a breather. The sun’s shining, and I’m thinking, “Maybe I’ll grab a coffee at the Calcot Centre.” But nooo, of course, I bump into my old mate, Dave. He’s always got some wild story. Today, he’s ranting about how he saw a fox on his street—Bramble Road, I think?—and it was just chilling like it owned the place. I’m cracking up, picturing this fox strutting around like it’s the king of Calcot.

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