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About Amadora

So, I met this chick once—Roxy, she called herself. Worked the corner near my buildin’. Red heels, fishnets, the whole deal. I’d see her, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a lamppost—like some noir film, ya know? I’d nod, she’d wink. One night, she hops in my elevator—bam! Smells like cheap perfume and trouble. “Goin’ up?” I ask. She laughs, says, “Ain’t I always?” Got me good, that one—sharp as a tack.

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First off, I hit up the Mercado Municipal. You know, the one on Rua da Liberdade? I’m all about that fresh pão and queijo. But guess what? They were outta my fave cheese! Like, are you kidding me? I’m standing there, staring at the empty shelf like it’s a personal betrayal. I mean, who runs outta cheese in Grândola?

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