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About Karaganda

So, finding a tart—sorry, “sex worker,” gotta be PC these days, bloody woke nonsense—ain’t like popping to Tesco for a pint of milk. Nah, it’s dodgy, mate. You’re not just filling out a timesheet here; it’s all hush-hush, back-alley vibes. Made me proper angry, though—why’s it so complicated? I just wanna have a butcher’s, not crack the Da Vinci Code! Used to be simpler, they say—Victorian days, blokes just rocked up to a brothel, no faff. Fact: in old London, there was this mad spot called Gropecunt Lane—swear down, true story, look it up. Mental name, right? Straight to the point, no corporate jargon bollocks.

In today’s world you can find pretty much anything with a smartphone.

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Man, what a day! I’m tellin’ ya, being a Banderillero in Karaaul is like riding a rollercoaster blindfolded. So, I wake up, right? Sun’s blazin’ through my window on Kabanbay Batyr Street. I’m like, “Great, another scorcher.” But hey, I’m pumped. Today’s the big event at the central plaza.

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