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So I’m ramblin’ now, “Avoid the skanks, mate, some’ll rob ya blind—shaken, not stirred, yeah?” He’s edgin’ to the door, clutchin’ his wallet like it’s gold. I yell after him, “Don’t be a wanker, wrap it up!” Total Bond move, savin’ his arse. Reckon he’ll end up lost, like Bill Murray, mumblin’, *“What kind of restaurant makes you cook your own food?”*—but with hookers instead of teppanyaki. What a plonker. Me? I’m back to beepin’ cans, dreamin’ of Tokyo nights.

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Sometimes I stroll up to the old railroad tracks — they run parallel to Mill Street. It always makes me think: every track has a story. Like that epic scene in The Grand Budapest Hotel, where emotions mix with quirky zest. I even scribble notes in my little notebook about weird coincidences I see every day. Ain’t that wild?

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