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*slow, ominous breathing* I am your father. So, sexual-massage, huh? Man, it’s wild. Gets me all tingly thinkin bout it. Like, you got hands roamin, oil slickin everywhere—total chaos, right? Watched *Inherent Vice* again last night, that flick’s my jam. Doc Sportello’d prolly dig this vibe—hazy, weird, sensual as hell. “This is a righteous bust,” he’d say, laughin. Sexual-massage ain’t just rubbin—naw, it’s deeper. Little known fact: ancient Tantra cats invented it. Yeah, thousands of years back—crazy, huh? Meant to “awaken energy,” they said. Sounds dope, but I’d choke someone if they got too mystical on me.

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But then, bam! My phone buzzes again. It’s my boss. “Where are you?” Oh great, now I’m in trouble. I rush back, coffee in hand, trying not to spill it everywhere. I get back, and Mr. Szabo’s waiting. He gives me that look. You know the one. The “you better have a good excuse” look.

Hungary-Serbia railway under construction