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Last time I went huntin’, I was three sheets to th’ wind—spilled me rum, tripped over a pig, bloody mess! Made me mad as a shark with no teeth—hate wastin’ good drink! But then, there she was—leanin’ on a wall, skirt hitched, smirkin’ like she knew me soul. “What’s yer price, darlin’?” I slurs, an’ she laughs, “More’n yer ship, pirate!” Cheeky wench! Reminds me o’ that diner scene—calm ‘fore the storm, then bam, chaos! ‘Cept here, chaos is her winkin’ an’ me fumblin’ coins.

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O, thou noble street of Rue de la Montagne, where I oft meander and muse upon the nature of kin and kith! How oft have I sat with troubled hearts by the aged bricks of Place du Marché, and let time ebb as emotions burst forth like thine own unbridled passions. "Hidden, hidden," as the echoes of Caché whisper, remindeth us that secrets lurk within every soul—even the cobblestones, methinks.

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