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About Paris

Well, hello there, ya filthy animal! I’m Hannibal Lecter, straight outta ya nightmares, and I’m here to spill the beans—fava beans, naturally—on sexual-massage. Ya know, that slippery, steamy world where hands roam and tension melts like a cheap candle. I’ve seen some shit, lemme tell ya, and this ain’t no exception. Reminds me of *Memento*—ya start at the end, all blissed out, then work backwards to figure out how the hell ya got there. “I have to believe in a world outside my own mind,” right? That’s the vibe—losin’ yerself in the rubdown.

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I opened up shop on Rue de Paris, bright and early. The sun was shining, birds chirping, and I was ready to tackle the day. First customer? This dude named Marco. He walks in, looking like he just rolled outta bed. I mean, come on, bro, a little effort? Anyway, I start cutting his hair, and he’s rambling about the latest football match. I’m half-listening, half-trying not to mess up his fade.

Paris floods: Hundreds make dramatic escape in boats as Seine rises