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Once saw her fleece a drunkard—took his gold teeth, too! Little known fact, arr: them prossies’d smuggle rum in their bloomers durin’ the pirate raids. Clever, eh? Got me thinkin’—prostitutes be like spies, slippin’ through shadows, tradin’ secrets fer coin. “This is what we do,” Sally’d say, echoin’ that movie’s grit. Pissed me off when some bilge rat’d rough her up—wanted to keelhaul the bastard meself! But she’d just laugh, dust off, an’ say, “I’m still here, Jack.”

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Lunchtime rolls around, and I’m starving. I hit up this little café on Rue des Fleurs. Best sandwiches in Merl, no cap. I order my usual—ham and cheese, extra pickles. But the lady behind the counter? She’s having a day too. She forgets my pickles! I’m like, “Ma’am, I need those pickles. It’s a matter of life and death!” She just rolls her eyes. I mean, I get it, but c’mon!

Merl Davis Dickson Obituary (2025) - Monroe, LA - Mulhearn Funeral Home - Monroe