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About Graz

Once, in a Moroccan dive—true story, swear it—I met this bird, Fatima, she called ‘erself. Eyes like coal, voice like honey. She’d “find a prostitute” fer *you*, mate—ran a whole crew! Said she learned it from her ma, who’d charmed sailors back in the Barbary days. Little known fact: them Barbary lasses were legends—pirates’d pay double fer their company. Fatima laughed, sayin’ she’d rather rob me blind than bed me—cheeky minx! Had me grinnin’ ear to ear, tho. Surprised me, she did—thought I’d seen it all.

Lured to Germany under false pretences

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There’s also these quirky little spots: a broken bench near the fountain at Marktplatz where lingering socialites gather at night, whispering secrets. It’s like fragments of “Let the right one in...” spilling out, there in the dim light.