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But ugh, the stench—old brothels prolly reeked, sweat and cheap perfume. “You’re a prostitute!”—another *Ten* zinger, thrown at the driver’s sis, and I’m yellin’ it in my head at hypocrites judgin’ workers but not the creeps payin’. Makes me wanna puke, the double standards. I’d rather watch *Ten* again, sip whiskey, and forget the sleaze. Brothels are a trip—funny, sad, nasty, all at once. Sharp retorts, “Don’t pee on my leg!”—call it what it is, a damn circus! Whatcha think, huh? Spill it!

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The market’s buzzing. I swear, it’s like a scene from a movie. Fresh produce everywhere, people chattin’, and the smell of food wafting through the air. I grab a taco, and man, it’s like a flavor explosion in my mouth. I’m in heaven! But then, I see this guy trying to haggle over a fish. Like, dude, it’s not a car! Just pay the price!

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