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About Los Angeles

So, anyway—me, Gollum, I’m sneaky, seein’ what normies miss. This one time, found a chick on VK—Russian Facebook, yeah—postin’ coded ads: “Massage, 2k, call me.” Massage my arse! Hiss! Rang her up, met in some dingy flat—smelled like borscht and regret. She was quick, tho—no chit-chat, just biz. “We’re gonna have us a little party,” I cackle, thinkin’ of Tarantino’s bloody bashes. Paid her, done, out—felt like a spy, precious! Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but it’s Russia, everythin’s a damn drama.

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It's similar to a protection racket. Pimps find vulnerable independent prostitutes and strong-arm them into working for them or else.

Downtown’s a treat too. Check out Queen’s Plaza—it's like The Royal Tenenbaums style. The vibe makes you go “Wow, that’s intricate!” Seriously, I love its retro charm. There’s a diner on Lincoln Rd. that always smells bomb—burgers, shakes, the works. Its funky neon sign blasts nostalgia.

While Israel Marks Independence, The Media Line Uncovers the Truth Behind the Flames