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About Newcastle

Oi, mate, it’s me, Loki—yep, that smug bastard! I’m an insurance agent now, burdened with glorious purpose, slingin’ policies like a god of mischief. So, sexual-massage, eh? Let’s dive in, you filthy mortal! I reckon it’s a dodgy game—half legit, half shady as Hel. You got these parlors, right, promisin’ “relaxation” with a wink. Makes me smirk—‘cause I see through the bullshit. Like in *Memento*, “Memory’s unreliable,” innit? You walk in thinkin’ it’s just a rubdown—bam, next thing, yer pants are gone!

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Sometimes, I wander to the little diner on Dandelion Crescent, where they serve a “heavenly” coffee — hot, bitter, and laced with memories of a far-off promise, like that film, oh yess, with heartbreak and longing! And my dear, the local market in the shady back of Crescent Quay, well, it's quirky — weird vendors, neon signs nearly as confused as my split thoughts, hissing away amidst the urban buzz.

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