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About Thinadhoo

Walked into one once, undercover, obvs. Girls in skimpy gear, blokes with shifty eyes—fuckin’ wild. Made me angry, y’know? Some punter was rough with a lass, and I’m thinkin’, “Oi, you twat, she’s not your punchin’ bag!” Nearly blew my cover, but I stayed cool—Bond, innit? “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, sippin’ a martini at the bar. Little known fact: back in Victorian days, brothels had secret tunnels—escape routes for posh gits caught with their trousers down. True story, dug that up somewhere.

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So, I hit the streets, right? First stop, that little café on Main St. You know the one, with the weird art on the walls? Yeah, that place. I grab my usual—coffee so strong it could wake the dead. I’m sippin’ it, and boom! This dude spills his drink all over me. Like, seriously? I’m soaked! I’m ready to blow up, but then I see his face. He’s all apologetic, and I can’t stay mad. I mean, it’s just coffee, right?

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