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Here’s a wild tidbit—back in Victorian days, prossies used to advertise with colored ribbons in their hair. Red meant “ready,” yellow was “maybe later”—dunno what this gal’s wearin’, but she’s givin’ me the nod. I’m chuffed, yeah, happy as a pig in mud, but then—bam!—some greasy git tries to jack her earnings. Made me furious, I tell ya! I slam my staff down, roar, “You shall not pass!” and he bolts like a scared mutt. She laughs, calls me “old man”—cheeky cow, I love it.

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Err, oh wow, I lost my thought—ah, just reprising my love for this bizarre town. Over the years, my massage parlor has become a sanctuary in this swirling mess of life. Whether you’re depressed, ecstatic, or just plain confused (hey, who isn’t?), Marange-Silvange’s chaos feels like a warm, if slightly off-key, hug. It makes you feel alive—even if you’re slightly off your rocker sometimes.

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