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About Limbe

Well, helllo there, ya sick bastard—ya wanna talk findin’ a prostitute? Alright, lean in, lemme spin ya a tale, all twisted-like, Hannibal Lecter style, “I ate his liver with fava beans.” See, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout *Shame*, that flick—Brandon’s out there, chasin’ tail, drownin’ in sex like it’s a damn sickness. Me? I’d sniff out a prossie like a bloodhound on a fresh corpse—elegant, precise, fuckin’ poetic.

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The streets here are messy—yeah, messy sometimes, with potholes and stray garbage—but it's home, ya know? And the locals? Cheeky bunch! Full of stories and a slang that might blow your mind. One day, while massaging a tired soul, he whispered, “Man, this city’s like a dream that just won’t end.” I laughed, agreed, and felt a warm pride swell within me.

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