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About Netanya

So, picture this—dingy lil joint, red lights flickerin’ like a bad dream. Smells like cheap perfume and cheaper regrets. I waltzed in once, curious as a cat with a scalpel. Girls lined up, eyes dead as fish, but smilin’—fake as a politician’s tears. “We’re artists,” one says, puffin’ a cigarette. Artists! Ha! I nearly choked on my own tongue laughin’. Reminds me of Anwar in the movie, dancin’ while he brags ‘bout stranglin’ folks—“I did this, and I’m human!” Same bullshit, different stage.

The Koulla

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I start scanning the crowd. It’s packed, like a can of sardines. I spot a guy near the bar, acting all shady. I’m like, “Hey, you! What’s in your pockets?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. I’m like, “Dude, don’t play games.” Turns out, he’s got her phone! I’m feelin’ like a hero, but also kinda annoyed. Why can’t people just keep track of their stuff?

Hundreds of Israeli Arabs hold peaceful protests over Temple Mount