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Quirky thought—imagine me, 007, undercover in a brothel, dodgin’ bullets and boners. “I’m here to carve my name,” I’d growl, Tarantino-style, dodgin’ a drunk john. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but brothels are bloody theatres—dramas, laughs, tears, all for a fiver. Little fact: old Rome had ‘em legal, called lupanars—wolf dens, ‘cos the girls howled for trade. Savage, eh?

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Bruh, the neighborhoods have real characters—like L’Amour Quarter (yeah, I coined that in my brain, haha) where every smile feels like a clandestine touch. That’s where I seen a lover whisper “I miss you” and then disappear into the mall of memories, like that film’s poetic punch. And yo, don’t be fooled by the small-town looks, Tremelo’s got grit—some parts, like near the old mill, echo tough times; makes you mad sometimes, so angry at how history weighs heavy, but also mad happy for rebirth. Crazy, right?

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