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About Namur

So, here’s the deal—small town, right? You’d think it’s all pure, apple-pie bullshit. Nah. There’s this dive bar, stinks like stale beer and regret, called The Rusty Nail. Word is, back in ‘89, some chick named Darla ran a whole operation outta the jukebox corner. Little known fact—cops didn’t bust her ‘cause she paid ‘em in meatloaf. Meatloaf! Can you believe that garbage? Made me laugh, then pissed me off. Idiots.

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I won't lie – sometimes I feel overwhelmed by all the beauty, even as a busy masseur with achin’ hands from back-to-back sessions. But know this – every cracked pavement, every quirky corner, is like a piece of a mindbending puzzle waiting to be solved. Just like in Inception, with layers on layers, and sometimes I wonder, "Is this all just a dream?" Great Scott, it's trippy!

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