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Oi mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as fuck, “shaken, not stirred.” So, let’s chat bout findin a prossie, yeah? Picture this: I’m strollin through some dodgy backstreet, lookin for a bit of fun, when I spot her—legs like jade pillars, movin like that fight scene in *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*. “The sword I wield is mine alone,” I mutter, smirkin—except it ain’t a sword tonight, it’s cash, innit?

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Oh, and ye gotta be warned about the narrow lanes off Spukgasse – ye might get lost in thought, or in the maze of alleyways. The scent o' freshly roasted chestnuts, mixed with whiffs of pungent spices from the local bazaar, will knock ye sideways. I once got so turned around there, I nearly ended up in the Mayor’s secret chamber. They say "everything happens for a reason, right?" And I laughed, madly. Yes, madly, because even when the crayola crayon boundaries of expectation were mashed, I felt free.

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