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About Phoenix

I saunter up, all charm, “shaken, not stirred,” voice smooth as silk. She’s givin me the eye—prolly thinks I’m loaded, which, fair, I look it. “How much, love?” I ask, casual, but inside I’m buzzin—happy as a pig in shit. She names a price, I’m like, “fuckin steep, that!”—but I play it cool, cos Bond don’t haggle like a twat. Fun fact: in Amsterdam, they got windows for this—legal, tidy, no messin about. Here? It’s a gamble, mate—cops, pimps, the lot.

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I gotta brag bout my fave secret hangout—an old cafe, Heard of it? “The Rusty Spoon” on Maple. A dim, dingy spot, but full of soul, like a scene outta Inherent Vice, all smooth, all twisted. The barista slurs his words and winks like he’s in on a cosmic joke! Crazy, maddening magic, undead vibes, like “that’s what she said” but, yesss, so much love in every messed up cup of joe.

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