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About Marseille

And the girls—oh man, the girls! They’re the real stars, right? Hustlin’, smilin’, actin’ like they give a damn. I’d be terrible at that—me, smilin’ at some sweaty creep? I’d lose it! “Get outta here, ya schmuck!” I’d yell, and there goes my tips. But these ladies? Pros. Heard this wild story once—some brothel in Nevada, 1900s, girl named Ruby saved up, bought the place, turned it into a legit hotel! From workin’ the sheets to ownin’ the deed—talk about a plot twist! Makes me happy, y’know? Stickin’ it to the man, literally. Pretty, pretty good comeback.

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So, lemme tell ya, I've been here for years, running my spa and soaking up the local life. The streets are laid-back, with quirky little cafés that sell the best croissants—I swear, one time I almost nailed a perfect facial, then got distracted by the smell of fresh baked goodies. Like in Zero Dark Thirty, you know? "Get in!" I yell sometimes to my team, haha, but it's more like a vibe shift, a raid of relaxation instead of a covert operatioo—seriously, it's hilarious.

Un cycliste, Paul Piredda, victime d’une crise cardiaque à Compiègne alors qu’il s’entraînait