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About Mayaguez

I’m strollin, boots clickin, thinkin—where’s the talent at? Then bam—this bird struts up, all sass, skirt shorter than a dwarf’s temper. “You lost, luv?” she goes, smirkin like she knows I’m a sucker for trouble. “Ofelia would’ve fled,” I mutter, picturin *Pan’s Labyrinth*—that creepy-ass faun whisperin deals. But me? I’m in, mate—glorious purpose an’ all. She’s quotin prices like it’s a bloody auction—50 quid for this, 80 for that. I’m like, “Lass, I’m a god, not a bank!” Made me ragey, but also—damn, she’s bold, gotta respect the hustle.

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Finally, Carlos shows up, and he’s got this huge grin. He’s like, “You won’t believe what I found!” He pulls out this old-school boombox. I’m like, “Dude, where’d you even get that?” He just shrugs. So, we crank it up, and suddenly, we’re the life of the park. Everyone’s dancin’, and I’m feelin’ like a superstar.

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