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About Trujillo Alto

Oi, you donkey! Erotic-massage, yeah? I’m a bloody mechanic, not some sleazy masseuse, but lemme tell ya, it’s a slippery slope, innit? Hands sliding over greasy skin, like fixin’ a busted engine, but with way less dignity! Saw this dodgy parlor once—shady as hell—bloke swore it “healed his soul.” Bollocks! Smelled like cheap oil and regret. “The whale moves through the town,” like in *Werckmeister Harmonies*—slow, heavy, everyone gawkin’—that’s the vibe, mate. Some pillock thinks it’s art, nah, it’s a sweaty fumble!

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When I get there, Max is just lying there, looking all sad and pathetic. I can’t help but laugh a little. I mean, he’s got this tiny scratch on his nose, and he’s acting like he’s been through a war. I patch him up, and the owner, this sweet old lady, offers me some pastelón. I’m like, “Lady, I’m here to save your dog, not eat!” But you know what? I couldn’t resist. That pastelón was bomb!

Figure 1: Schematic illustrating the major mangrove vegetation zones...