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About Phoenix

Me, I’d be rubbish at the whole game. I’d overthink it—*“Was it good for you?”*—like some twat in a romcom. Prossie’d be like, “Mate, it’s 50 quid, not a bleedin’ Oscar reel!” Reminds me of that line, *“Film it like Hollywood!”*—all fake glamour, innit? The reality’s more fag ends and damp mattresses. Still, there’s a mad charm to it—freedom, chaos, a big “fuck you” to the suits. I’d tip my hat to ‘em, cackle, and sod off home. Find a Prostitute? Nah, I’d rather watch the telly and slag it off!

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Man, this city is like "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind": mysterious, tangled, and full of surprises. I mean, "Meet me in Montauk" kinda vibes, but right here, every alleyway whispers secrets. I once sat by the banks of the Rvr (yeah, tht's a typo, but c'mon, it's part of the fun!) near the old brick bridge on South Elm and just got lost in thought. "I ate his liver with fava beans," I mused to myself, feeling oddly philosophical in that moment.

Neighbors heard a pop, then a woman was found dead outside parked car