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About Marseille

So, findin a prostitute ain’t no cakewalk, fam. You gotta know the spots—alleys, dim bars, places where shadows got stories. Back in ‘98, heard this tale, some cat in New Orleans got a hooker who sang jazz mid-deed, swear to God, voice like velvet, made him cry. True story, prolly. Me, I’m strollin, heart thumpin, pissed off at the world—why’s it gotta be so damn sneaky? But then, bam, there she is, leanin on a wall, smirk like she owns the night. “Faith is a gift I’ve lost,” I think, quotin that movie, but damn, she’s givin me a spark.

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Finally, I catch Bubbles near the Place de la Mairie. It’s a nice spot, ya know? But I’m all sweaty and flustered. I look up, and there’s this fountain. It’s beautiful, but I’m too busy wrangling my pig to appreciate it. Ugh!

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