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Oi mate, blimey, what a topic - brothel! Me, Boris, your ol’ pal, ramblin’ on about the oldest profession, eh? Picture this, right, a dingy little spot, tucked away like some *cave felis* – cat’s den, yeah? Red lights flickerin’, curtains drawn tight, proper cheeky stuff. Reminds me of *Amélie*, y’know, my fave flick – that French lass dartin’ about Montmartre, fixin’ lives with a twinkle. Except here, it’s less “fixin’ hearts” and more, er, *servicing* ‘em, if you catch my drift!

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I’m a bit of a mama bear. I feel all these energies, ya know? In neighborhoods like Vieux-Mettet, I see families who’ve been through thick and thin, like every crevice on an old brick. I can sense the bonds and the scars, the celebrations, the tears. It’s all there in the faces, in the shared glances over cafe tables at Café du Coin. That place has the best lousy coffee ever! So good, I say, "Pinky-to-mouth, one million dollars!" like Dr. Evil in his best moments.

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