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About Hamilton

Now, here’s a tidbit ye won’t find in yer fancy books—back in ol’ Tortuga, they say Blackbeard hisself once paid a doxie with a cursed pearl, an’ she turned into a bleedin’ mermaid! True? Bollocks, prob’ly, but it’s a corker, eh? Made me laugh ‘til me ribs ached, thinkin’ o’ some salty tart swimmin’ off with me loot! Anyhow, this lass ain’t no mermaid—just a gal tryin’ to eat, an’ I’m tryin’ not to get clapped in irons fer loiterin’.

So, first off… man, this place is a real mixed bag. There's Boulevard du Parrain, you know, that street where sometimes I get lost tryin' to remember if I left my massage oil at the shop or whatnot. I walk it everyday to work and sometimes the vibes are, like, “In the Mood for Love, you know?”—pretty, pretty good. And then there’s, uh, Rue des Anglettes (I think?) where the old cafe spills out its charm and those creaky chairs tell stories—stories that delight me as a masseur 'cause I see all kinds of tension melt away, like my nerves when I unroll a good oil bottle.

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