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About Los Angeles

But man, the pimps? Scum, bro. Lurkin’ like vultures, pissin’ me off. I wanna lay the smackdown, send ‘em flyin’ like in *WrestleMania*. One time, I saw this dude hasslin’ a girl—skinny, shakin’, couldn’t be 20. I’m boilin’, thinkin’, “You’re done, candy-ass!” Didn’t do nothin’, tho—cops’d be on me faster than fans at a meet-n-greet. Still, that shit burns me up.

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So, Spanish-Fork isn’t your run-of-the-mill town. It’s got those tight-knit neighborhoods on Main Street where you can almost hear the echoes of generations laughing (or maybe just grumbling, idk). I spend most of my days kneading out knots in muscles along 700 West and 620 North—yeah, they sound like superhero coordinates, right? Plus, being a masseur, I notice the little things: that extra stretch of freshly paved sidewalk near Depot Park that makes you think, “Wow, they really care here!” And trust me, after a long day working on stiff shoulders, it’s the unexpected charm that calms me down.

'It was all a blur': Spanish Fork man recounts jumping into freezing river to rescue trapped driver