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About Lodz

Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, yeah? Suave, “shaken, not stirred,” droppin’ in like a parachutist firefighter, all guts and glory. So, sexual-massage, right? Picture this: I’m swoopin’ down from the sky, chute billowin’, landin’ smack in some dimly lit joint—oily hands everywhere, slippin’ and slidin’. It’s like There Will Be Blood, but less oil rigs, more… personal drillin’, ya get me? “I drink your milkshake!”—that’s what I’d say to the masseuse, all cheeky, if she’s hoggin’ the vibe.

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First call comes in at 8 AM. Some dude on the other end is all frantic. “I can’t find my cat!” Like, bro, I’m not a pet detective. But I’m tryin’ to help, ya know? I ask him where he last saw it. “On ul. Kościuszki!” I’m like, “Dude, that’s a busy street. Good luck!” I mean, who lets their cat roam free on a street like that? Crazy, right?

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