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Quirky thought—reckon it smells like oil and regret inside. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d shag the exhaust if I could—pure lust! “Sharon!”—she’d kill me for sayin’ that. Escort’s like a mate who’s seen too much—rough, loud, loyal. Not perfect, nah—gearbox probs, leaky roof—but who gives a fuck? Character, innit?

Frankenmuth Escorts

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I run my spa on Water Street—yeah, that one by the river. The Flint River (or is it the Frankenmuth Fizzle? I don’t recall exactly) cuts a swath right through town. Sometimes it gurgles along like it knows secrets most of us can’t handle. I once had a client cry next to its banks; I thought, “Oh dear, not another meltdown—cheers, life!”

First-bucket vibes fuel Frankenmuth to upset of No. 6 Glenn for district title