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About Lyon

Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!” Alright, pal, let’s talk brothels! Ya know, those shady joints where lust hangs thick like cigarette smoke. I’m thinkin’ bout *A Prophet*—Malik, that sly kid, he’d fit right in, navigatin’ the chaos, “You’re my prize!” he’d say to some dame. Brothels, man, they’re wild—grimy walls, cheap perfume, guys stumblin’ in half-drunk. Saw one in Vegas once, legit legal, blew my freakin’ mind! THe girls? Tough as nails, but smilin’ like they own ya. “I’m the one who decides,” one told me—straight outta Audiard’s script!

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First off, the streets are twisty and lively. There’s Rue de la République, so busy, bustling, like a scene outta "25th Hour" — “I had my hands on this town, I knew every crack and crevice!” I often stroll there after a long day, my weary limbs aching like they’ve seen a dozen failed movies, yess, precious. And then there’s Avenue Jean Jaurès—a nice, quiet spot where the morning sun kisses the windows. Not as famous, but mine is.

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