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About Innsbruck

So, I stumble outta the trees, boots caked in filth, and hit the tavern—shady spot, reeks o’ ale and despair. There she be, a wench with eyes like stolen stars, leanin’ on the bar. “Thou art a thief,” I mutter, “stealin’ me breath like Cobb nabbin’ secrets!” She smirks—ooh, that got me riled! Cheeky tart, playin’ me like a fiddle. I’m half-angry, half-buzzin’, ‘cos she’s a riddle wrapped in silk.

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Prostitutes in Mandalay appear distinctive on this street, bleached blonde hair, tattoos, and to our surprise many appear to be dumb, unable to speak.

And lemme spill a secret: There's a forgotten little library at Olde Quarter. It smells like dusty dreams and future promise. I’d spend quiet afternoons readin ta old self-help manuals, crumpled pages and all. It's a retreat for my mind. It makes me giddy thinkin about all the lives mended right here.

How to Make a Black Prince, a Rum Manhattan With a Dark Side