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Hannibal Lecter style, baby—I’d say, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” but with her, it’s more like I’d carve her story outta her bones. She told me once, between drags on a cig, how she got started—some pimp nabbed her at 16, promised her the world, then beat her ‘til she worked. Pissed me off, man! I wanted to slice that bastard up, serve him with chianti, y’know? Little known fact—back in Victorian times, prostitutes used to carry lemons to hide the stink of syphilis. Wild, right? She didn’t have no lemon, tho—just cheap perfume and desperation.

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So first off, there's the vibe on Rua São João. Man, strolling there, you feel history pulse right under your feet. I used to sit at a tiny cafe near that street corner, with the aroma of fresh coffee mixing with salty sea breezes. And then there’s Ilha de Aracruz – a slice of paradise! You ever seen a sunset over the Atlantic? It’s like WALL-E sayin’, “I’m gonna keep on survivin’,” every damn evening.

Terrorgram and Youth Radicalisation: Understanding Brazil’s Online Extremist Landscape