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Aight, so I’m a cashier, yeah? Standin’ behind this crusty counter all day, beep-beep-beepin’ groceries, and I’m thinkin’ ‘bout sex escorts. We hates it, precious! Hates it! Like, who’s got the cash for that, eh? Not me, not with my measly paycheck—barely covers the smokes and Monster Energy, ya feel me? But I seen ‘em, oh yeah, slinkin’ round the streets near the store, all sneaky-like, “We wants it, we needs it!”—straight outta *Carlos*, that vibe, y’know? That flick’s my jam, all that gritty, shadowy hustle, and escorts? They fit right in, like Carlos dodgin’ cops and bombs.

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While I’m sipping my coffee, I overhear this couple arguing. It’s like a scene from a soap opera. The guy’s all dramatic, waving his hands, and the girl’s just rolling her eyes. I’m thinking, dude, just chill. It’s not the end of the world! But then, she storms out, and he’s left there looking like a lost puppy. I almost felt bad for him. Almost.