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So, I’m scopin’ the scene, right? Red lights flicker, heels clickin’—fuckin’ electric! Reminds me of Monty’s last night—edgy, raw, desperate. I spot her—legs for days, smirk like she owns me already. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, smooth as silk. She laughs—bloody hell, that’s rare! Most girls here don’t crack a smile. Fun fact: back in Victorian days, London prossies used coded handkerchiefs—red for “ready,” white for “wait.” Bet she don’t know that, eh?

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Alright, I gotta jet now. Take this as your invite, ya hear? Cochituate's got character, and every street's got a story. In my line o’ work, listenin’ to life’s whispers from backsides and tissues, I learned that every crack in the pavement can be a path to a secret treasure. Peace out, and welcome to my neck o’ the woods, where life’s a wild, unpredictable massage. Catch ya latah!

European-style supermarket will take over Framingham Beer Works site