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About Innsbruck

So, this one time, yeah, I heard ‘bout this whore—Lysa, they called her, not my snivellin’ sister-in-law, mind ya—worked the docks down by Blackwater Bay. Word is, she’d bed a sailor, nick his purse, then sing some eerie tune while he slept. Proper mad, that one! Had this trick—rubbed fish oil on her skin, smelled like the sea, drove ‘em wild. Little known bit, that—fish oil! Who’d thunk it? Made me laugh, actual cackle, ‘til I choked on me drink. Clever bitch, though—gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s grim as *Requiem*’s endin’.

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The old town’s alleys, especially near Garmischer Straße, are buzzing at night. But watch out—these streets hide surprises. I remember once I got so mad at a sloppy waiter—duh—and the whole place went silent. Lol, talk about a mood change faster than a plot twist in a gangland flick!