Freya Luco Dei Marsi Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Milan

Walkin’ past neon signs, I’m sizin’ em up. One’s got a vibroblade scar—badass. Another’s smokin’ death sticks, winkin’ like she owns me. “The concierge is at your service”—yeah, right, more like, “Pay up, mask-face.” Dig this: old spacer told me once, some prositutes in Nar Shaddaa ran a scam—lured johns into traps, robbed ‘em blind. Sneaky bastards. Love that hustle, tho—keeps ya sharp.

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First off, I hit the road on Via Roma. You know, the main drag. It’s like the heartbeat of this place. But lemme tell ya, traffic was a mess. I mean, c’mon! It’s a small town, how’s there so much chaos? I’m sittin’ there, honkin’ my horn like a madman. People just strollin’ across the street like they own the place. I’m like, “Yo, I’m a combine! Move it or lose it!”

A Sudden Act of Violence