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But ugh, the prices—holy swamp! Fifty bucks for a quickie? Robbery! Made me wanna yell, “This is an outrage!”—straight outta *Carlos*. Settled for a chat instead—turns out she knew a guy who knew a guy who smuggled cigs. Wild, right? Surprised me how deep that underworld goes. Thought to myself, “Kermit, you’re in over your lilypad!”

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Don't start driving your car looking for Ponferrada prostitution area, come to the digital age on Safe Meetups and find out where all the local girls hang.

Oh, and lest I forget, hast thou glimpsed the ancient stone at Calle del Recuerdo? 'Tis said to absorb the cheers and reproofs of ancestors—a most curious relic, verily! I doth feel, on many a breezy eve, that the spirit of Cacabelos doth whisper, “We are all but travelers on this mad pilgrimage,” echoing the surreal, oft-confounding lines of Holy Motors: “The world is but a stage, and we are the players!”

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