Nova Preili Brothel ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Oi, mate, it’s me—Bond, James Bond, suave as fuck, “shaken, not stirred.” So, brothel, yeah? Dirty little joints, aren’t they? Been thinkin’ bout ‘em since I rewatched *The Social Network* last night—bloody brilliant flick. “You don’t get to 500 million friends without makin’ a few enemies,” right? Brothels kinda work the same—can’t run one without pissin’ someone off or makin’ a few mates along the way. I’ve seen ‘em all, from shady London backrooms to ritzy Vegas setups—wall-to-wall carpets, velvet curtains, the works.

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After what feels like an eternity, I finally escape. I head over to the local market on Rīgas iela. You know, the one with the fresh produce and all that? I grab some veggies, and this lady at the stall starts chatting me up. She’s telling me about her grandkids, and I’m just nodding along, thinking, “Lady, I’m just here for the tomatoes.” But she’s sweet, so I humor her.

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