Times are in SLT.
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Food, Tunes and fun. Come by, get your buzz on and eat your fill of BBQ. King St, Rader parking lot
Times are in SLT.
Food, Tunes and fun. Come by, get your buzz on and eat your fill of BBQ. King St, Rader parking lot
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Word on the street... Night falls hard in Hathian, and rumor seeps through the gutters like spilled bourbon. Word on Berthier Street is the bakery’s pastry wars turned savage—fists and baguettes flying, someone’s scooter rampaging, and a sharp-tongued woman’s pistol spitting thunder through a cop car’s windshield. Some say those “gift” boxes passed around in the chaos hid more than sweets—maybe powdery secrets, now locked away in police evidence. Bloodied faces limped off into black alleys while scarred gangsters bartered silence for survival. No one’s sure who started the street brawl, but whispers claim old grudges and dirty narcotics fueled every broken jaw. In Crack Den, trust’s as brittle as glass tonight.
Whispers in the bayou... Another night slid through the rotten teeth of Laveau, and the bayou whispered secrets between the slick brick alleys. Word dripped from the marina that someone snuck illicit cargo off a battered trawler—boxes that glowed faint in the dark, guarded by men who didn’t blink at gunfire. Meanwhile, at the Barracuda, an argument between a wildcard regular and a Syndicate hardcase left a shattered glass and more than one black eye for the floor to clean up. And atop the old jazz bar’s balcony, a shadow broker met with desperate souls, peddling rumors that the Penitentiary’s silence is about to break. Watch your back—Laveau’s hungry.
Rumors on campus... Beneath Columtreal’s ancient oaks and crumbling arches, yesterday’s secrets rode the wind like autumn leaves. Word dripped from the Get Woke coffee counter: someone mysterious spent far too long whispering behind the espresso machine, leaving a trail of nervous baristas and errant credit slips. Meanwhile, the dispensary’s back door rattled after hours, hinting at a rendezvous that wasn’t on any staff schedule. Laughter and low voices from the dorms suggested a clandestine party—one not sanctioned by any Greek letter or official event. They say even a faculty member strolled the campus shadows with purpose, eyes sharp for more than just lost freshmen.
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