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So, picture this—dude’s got 24 hours left, like Monty in the movie, right? He’s scramblin’, tryna bang out every last thrill. Sex escorts fit that perfect. They’re the pros, the elite—none of that amateur hour crap. I knew this chick once, called herself “Raven,” worked outta some shady penthouse in Vegas. Swear to God, she’d quote lines like, “You’re not naïve enough to think we’re livin’ in a democracy, are ya?” Straight from *25th Hour*, smirkin’ while countin’ stacks. Blew my mind—she was sharp, man, sharper than most suits I’ve fleeced.

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So, we keep walking, and suddenly, I hear shouting. My heart drops. I turn, and there’s this guy yelling at my client. I’m like, “Oh no, not today!” I step in, all tough guy mode, and the dude backs off. Turns out, it was just a misunderstanding. Phew! But my adrenaline’s pumping. I’m ready to throw down if I have to.

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