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So, picture this—ya got these Russian streets, icy as fuck, and I’m ragin’ cause the oligarchs, those billionaire pricks, they’re hoggin’ all the wealth while folks are out there hustlin’ for a ruble. I’m like, “It’s a long road, man, where’s your home?”—straight outta the movie, ya feel me? Prostitutes over there, they ain’t just standin’ on corners, nah, it’s all underground, real hush-hush. Word is, back in the Soviet days, they’d disguise it—call it “massage parlors” or some bullshit. Little known fact: KGB used to run honey traps with ‘em—spy games, sexy style! Ain’t that wild?

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After that, I decided to grab a coffee at this cute little café on Place de la Mairie. The barista, this super chill guy, was like, “What’s up?” I ordered a cappuccino, and he gave me this massive cup. I swear, it was like a small swimming pool. I took a sip, and it was perfection. I was happy again! But then, I spilled half of it on my shirt. Classic me, right?

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