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About Gold Coast

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.

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Now, as you wander through Old Quay Lane—oops, pardon the slip, it's actually called Quayside Crescent, silly me—I remember that night of passionate ramblings first sparked by a tipple at “L'Amour Liqueur.” I got so lost in the dim, sultry glow—like Mulholland Drive, you know, that famous Lynch flick, “What happened in the shadows, stays in the shadows!” Delightfully mysterious, eh?

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