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Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout escort—wild stuff! I’m a parachutist firefighter, droppin’ from the sky, flames all round, but escort? That’s a differnt beast. Hannibal Lecter style, ya know—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—that’s me, sizin’ up escort like it’s a juicy meal. Ain’t talkin’ bout no fancy cars here, nah, it’s the gig, the hustle, the “company” folks pay for. Watched *Spotlight*—damn, that flick’s my jam—“The power of the press, huh?”—and it got me thinkin’. Escort’s got layers, like them secrets the church hid. Sneaky, shadowy, but real as hell.

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So, I wake up, ready to tackle the day. I’m thinking, “Today’s the day I finally finish that custom stove for Mrs. Kowalska on ul. 1 Maja.” She’s been waiting forever, and I’m like, “C’mon, lady, I got your back!” But first, I gotta grab some coffee. I hit up that little café on ul. Lubelska. Best coffee in town, no joke. I order my usual, a double espresso, and the barista, bless her heart, spills it all over the counter. I’m like, “Great, just what I needed!”

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