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About Marseille

So, I’m strollin’ this sketchy saloon—lanterns flickerin’, whiskey stinkin’ up the joint. Miners all rowdy, cards flyin’. Then I see her—red dress, lips like sin, leanin’ on the bar. A pro, obvi. I’m like, “Edna, no capes, no complications!” but damn, she’s got that vibe. I ain’t judgin’—girl’s gotta eat, right? Mining towns ain’t kind to nobody. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran their own damn empires—owned land, flipped gold nuggets like bosses. She’s probly one of ‘em, I bet.

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I stroll around musclein’ through the neighborhoods, thinking “Oh, what fresh madness is this?” I’ve rubbed away knots in the back of old timers near Place du Soleil – that’s the chill vibe – but seriously, the locals get the best massages even if ya gotta listen to Mr. Boulette complain ‘bout his bad week. Ugh, the irony, as in “The White Ribbon”: “A secret dark undercurrent flows beneath.” Whoo, that smacks ya right in the feels!

The Timeline: Land speed records