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About Sapporo

So, findin’ a hooker—where ya start? Streets, mate—grimy corners, neon buzzin’ like flies on shit. Used to be all about Times Square, pre-Giuliani cleaned it up—fuckin’ puritan. Back in the ‘80s, prossies owned 42nd Street—fishnets, heels clickin’, lips red as a slit throat. Now? Ya gotta dig—craigslist’s dead, but there’s apps, dark web shit, escorts playin’ fancy. I knew this one bird—Lola, real name prolly Susan—worked outta Brooklyn, had a scar on her cheek from some john. Said she made bank, $300 an hour—fuck me, that’s a lotta fava beans!

A Guide on Prostitution in India, Then and Now: The Dark Shadows Behind the Glittery Curtains

When I got there, it was a mess. Plants lookin’ sad, droopy, like they just got dumped. I was ready to throw hands. But then, I saw the farmer’s face. He looked so defeated. I took a deep breath. “Alright, let’s fix this.”

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