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About Norrkoping

So, escorts—high-class whores or desperate souls, take your pick. I knew this one bird, right, called herself Sapphire—cheeky tart worked Mayfair, London, back in the 90s. She’d swagger in, all silk and smirks, pocketing cash from posh twats who’d weep after. Made me laugh, her hustle—pure balls! But then, ugh, the stench of desperation sometimes—made me wanna gag. “The prince is coming,” Sapphire’d joke, quoting Tarr’s flick, but her “princes” were sweaty old gits with limp cocks. Hilarious, yet fuckin’ tragic.

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First off, I hit up the local café on Storgatan. You know, the one with the weird art on the walls? Yeah, that place. Grabbed a coffee, and it was like liquid gold. I swear, I could’ve fought a bear after that. But then, bam! My phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Erik. He’s like, “Yo, meet me at the arena!”

Storm easing • Buses getting back to normal