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About Frankfurt

So, I’m scopin’ the scene, right? Red lights flicker, heels clickin’—fuckin’ electric! Reminds me of Monty’s last night—edgy, raw, desperate. I spot her—legs for days, smirk like she owns me already. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, smooth as silk. She laughs—bloody hell, that’s rare! Most girls here don’t crack a smile. Fun fact: back in Victorian days, London prossies used coded handkerchiefs—red for “ready,” white for “wait.” Bet she don’t know that, eh?

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Alright, my dear chum, buckled up for a wild ride thru the quirky lanes of Bad-Urach, yeah? Now, don’t get me wrong–this isn’t your everyday town, its spirit is as effulgent as, well, as Finding Nemo’s endless optimism! Just keep swimming, I always say, even when I'm scrubbing the floors of my massage parlour on Schloßstraße, right near the ol’ Wasserschloss.

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