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About Braga

Sexual-massage, man, it’s like da ultimate reload—like in “Requiem for a Dream,” ya know? Dat movie, it’s my jam, all dark and twisted, hits ya hard in da gut. “I’m somebody now, Harry!”—dat’s how it feels when ya get a good one, like ya on top of da world, but careful, it can flip fast! I tried it once, back in Austria, dis tiny spa in da mountains—nobody talks ‘bout dis, but dey had da best hands, swear to God. Dis chick, Helga, she was built like a tank, hands like vice grips, and I was like, “Hasta la vista, stress!” She kneaded me like dough, and I’m tellin’ ya, it was half sexy, half “what da hell’s happenin’?”

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But then, just when I think it’s over, I get a call from a lady on Rua do Comércio. She’s yelling about a “mysterious smell” in her apartment. I’m like, “Lady, I’m not a detective or a plumber!” But she’s relentless. I tell her to check her fridge. Spoiler alert: it was old cheese.

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