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About Marseille

So, sex escorts—here’s the deal, my friend. They ain’t just hookers, nah, that’s too basic. These cats are pros, high-class wheelmen of the night. I knew this one dude—let’s call him Tony—ran an escort gig outta Vegas. Motherfucker had a fleet of ‘em, all dolled up, drivin’ Bentleys, droppin’ clients off like it’s a damn Uber Black. Little known fact: some of these escorts? They got codenames—like “Viper” or “Shadow.” Tony told me once, “Sam, they’re my pit crew, keepin’ the engine hummin’!” Made me laugh my ass off—pimpin’ with style, motherfucker!

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First off, I hit up Rue de la République. Classic spot, ya know? Grabbed a croissant from this little boulangerie. Best croissant ever! Flaky, buttery, like a hug for my taste buds. But then, bam! I spill coffee all over my shirt. Great start, huh? I’m lookin’ like a mess already.

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