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About Liverpool

So, picture this—dim lights, oil slicker’n a pirate’s promise. Hands dancin’ like them gals in Lynch’s flick—mysterious, yeah? “What’s it mean?” I mutter, like Naomi Watts whisperin’ secrets. Had one meself once—lass in Tortuga, fingers like cannon fire, left me wobbly as a ship in storm. Happy? Bloody ecstatic, mate! Surprised too—didn’t know me toes could tingle like that.

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We stroll down to the High Street. I’m keepin’ an eye out. Suddenly, I spot this sketchy dude hangin’ around. He’s got that look, ya know? Like he’s up to no good. My heart’s racin’. I’m thinkin’, “Not today, mate.” I nudge my client, “Let’s keep movin’.” But he’s busy takin’ selfies with the old church in the background. I’m like, “Bro, focus!”

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