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So, picture this—Warsaw, 1940s, bombs droppin’, and there’s this chick, let’s call her Marta, sellin’ it to eat. Not ‘cause she’s lovin’ it, but ‘cause she’s starvin’. Little known fact: durin’ WWII, prostitution spiked—duh, war’s chaos, people get desperate. Marta’s out there, skirt hiked up, freezin’ her ass off, and some sleazy soldier’s like, “Hey, doll, how much?” Makes me wanna puke, but also—damn, girl, you’re tough. I’m pissed, tho—why’s it always the women takin’ the hit? Men just waltz off, no shame. Ugh, patriarchy, amirite?

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There’s a spot called Harrison’s Corner. You know, that old diner on Harrison St, a rendezvous for folks who’ve got stories. I’ve sat and listened for hours. The locals, they flap their tongues – drama, jokes, and secrets. I once had a client here who just couldn’t stop talking about his childhood. Oops, got a bit too personal, y’know?

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