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About Pori

So, escort—bodyguards, right? Big tough guys, or sleek gals, watchin’ yer back. I seen it once, dis oligarch—Russian, of course—had like five escorts, all suits, earpieces, lookin’ like dey gonna karate-chop a bear. Made me laugh, so extra! But den, lightbulb! Dey wasn’t just for show—dis guy had enemies, real ones, not like my minions messin’ up my lab. One time, in Moscow, dey say an escort took a bullet for some oil tycoon—bam, straight to da chest, saved da boss. Crazy, da? Loyalty or just good pay? Dunno, but I was like, whoa, dat’s wild!

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The neighborhoods, dude, are split in quirks. Westside? Crazy artsy. Eastside? Super modern but secretly old school at heart. You’ll stumble on tiny cafés, like one on Rantakatu that serves the best coffee ever—says a local friend, even if it's kinda hidden. I got mad sometimes when newcomers dump their fancy vibes, but then again, its layered past makes it all groovy.