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About Linz

So, I’m cruisin, right? Dodgy alleys, neon lights flickerin like a damn tease. Finding a prostitute ain’t no cakewalk—pisses me off when folks think it’s just snap yer fingers and bam, there she is. Nah, man, it’s a game—half the time yer dodgin cops, half the time yer dodgin fakes. Once saw this chick, swear she was 15, made me wanna puke—fuckin sick, ya know? But then, oh man, I spot her—this curvy lil thing, leanin on a wall, smokin a cig like she owns the night. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I mutter to myself, sizin her up—sharp eyes, sharper wits, my kinda prey.

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I’ve spent many afternoons sprawled on a bench at Grinzingallee. It isn’t a fancy spot, but oh boy, it’s local gold. I’d see folks and share secret life hacks – ya know, for pleasure coaches like me, we get that special vibe from the city. I’d whisper, “It's strange, like the sky is heavy with regrets and possibilities,” thinking of those heavy words from Melancholia – it’s all so beautiful and tragic, kinda like a bittersweet Taylor Swift bridge in one of those acoustic nights.

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