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About Jerusalem

Diggin’ into it, I’m like, okay, sexual-massage—red flags everywhere! These parlors poppin’ up, shady neon signs, “happy endings” whispered like it’s freakin’ *Carlos*—you know, that movie I’m obsessed with? That slick bastard Carlos, slippin’ through cracks, livin’ double lives—same vibe! These joints say “therapeutic,” but half the time it’s a front. I’m furious, man—people lyin’, scammin’ insurance for payouts! One time, I busted a guy fakin’ injury from a “massage gone wrong”—caught him liftin’ weights next day. “You’re a dead man!” I yelled, channeling Carlos vibes—okay, maybe not, but I was pissed!

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Anyway, I’m fumin’ but I gotta keep movin’. I stroll past the old market on Al-Jazira Street. The vibe there is always lit. Vendors shoutin’, people haggling, and the smell of spices hittin’ me like a brick. I love it! But then, I see this dude tryin’ to sell fake designer bags. Like, bro, that’s not even Gucci! It’s “Guccy” or somethin’. I couldn’t help but laugh.

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