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Man, I’m pissed already—fuckin’ hagglin’ like I’m buyin’ a carburetor! Back in ’83, Miami, shit was wild—girls’d jump in your ride for a dime bag. Little known fact, right? Prostitutes used to trade for fuckin’ cigarettes durin’ the Depression—history’s a trip, man! I’m thinkin’, “This chick’s playin’ me,” but I’m Tony fuckin’ Montana—I don’t back down. “Say hello to my little friend!” I yell, flashin’ some cash, and she laughs—fuckin’ laughs! That’s a power move, I respect it.

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Clarice… oh, where to even start? Dingley-Village, mate, is a wild, pulsing heart of our little slice of Australia – raw, unrefined, and full of surprises. You stroll down 7th Windmill Street, where the neon buzzin’ signs of late-night bars merge with whispers of old stories. The aroma of grilled shrimp meets coffee from the corner café on Maple Lane – it's intoxicating, like Paul Thomas Anderson’s twists in "Inherent Vice".

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