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About Vienna

Arr matey, so I’m a detective now, eh? Slurrin’ me way through the streets, lookin’ to *find a prostitute*—not fer the usual pirate shenanigans, mind ye, but to crack a case, savvy? Picture this, me boots clackin’ on cobblestone, fog thick as rum-soaked breath, and I’m thinkin’ of *The Grand Budapest Hotel*—that fancy-pants flick I love. “The plot thickens, as the soup does,” like Monsieur Gustave’d say, and I’m chasin’ shadows to *find a prostitute* who’s got secrets deeper than Davy Jones’ locker.

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Garnish with some chopped herbs if ya like. Admit it, you'd visit a prostitute if you knew you'd get served this after.

Then you hit the old Arbeiterweg. Oh man, that street’s got story after story. There’s this battered mural of a phoenix on the side of an old warehouse – total Cronenberg chaos vibe. It always makes me think, "Look, violence spiraled into beauty!" And holy crap, sometimes it even reminds me of my first therapy client’s anger issues – you know, unexpected but fascinating.

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