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Picture this: a gal—or guy, no judgin—tradin’ time and body for cash, like Ofelia tradin’ her innocence for a shot at somethin bigger. “The moon will be full,” they say in the flick, promisin’ magic, but escortin? It’s more like a full wallet than fairy tales. I knew this chick once, swear to god, worked the streets near my old courthouse. Called herself “Vixen”—real name probly somethin dull like Karen. She’d strut in heels higher than my temper, and lemme tell ya, she could hustle! Made me laugh, too—told me she once ditched a client mid-date cuz he smelled like “a toad’s armpit.” Hah! That’s the spirit—don’t take no crap!

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Finally, I step outside for a breather. The fresh air hits me, and I’m like, “Okay, I can do this.” I stroll down to the local bakery on Fő Street. Best pastries ever! I grab a couple of those fluffy lángos. Heaven in my mouth, I swear. But then, I spill some on my shirt. Great. Just great. Now I look like a mess.

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