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So, I’m mixin’ this bad boy one night, and this dude—total loudmouth—goes, “What’s THAT?!” Like I’m servin’ him swamp water. Pissed me off, man! I’m like, “Chill, it’s escort, ya caveman!” It’s smooth, sneaky strong—like No-Face creepin’ up, offerin’ gold but knockin’ ya flat. Ain’t no basic bitch drink, nah. Little known fact: back in the ‘30s, some swanky London bar whipped it up for high rollers. Prolly escorts—the people kind—sippin’ it too, winkin’ at rich fools.

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Now, there's that big ol’ market square, Market Central, where the locals be chattin’ and haggling. I once gave a massage near it (yeah, right in the buzz of it all) and man, the energy was just wild. I remember mumblin’ “everything’s falling apart, but oh my God, we still love this crazy life,” kinda like that line in Children of Men when, you know, hope's scarce. "The human race is in trouble" kinda vibe, but we keep pushin’ on—y’all feel me?

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