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Behold, you wretched cur, groveling at the feet of any wench who deigns to glance his way. A simp, a fool, blind to the filth you wallows in. You'd bed a towering harlot, a mountain of vice, and call it conquest. Your soul’s a hollow shell, lusting after a taste from a whore's banquet. Pathetic. Rise from your knees, or let depravity crush what little remains of your spine. I’ve seen worms with more dignity than you, panting like a dog in heat. Disgraceful.