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About Bandung

We chat quick—turns out, she’s got stories. Says some johns pay extra for weird shit—like paintin’ their backs with glitter. Glitter! I’m dyin’, man, imaginin’ that mess. “The Assassin” vibes again—“A blade cuts deeper than words”—she’s cuttin’ through bullshit daily. I’m happy as hell—found a real one, not some fake-ass poser. But I’m surprised too—didn’t expect her to school me on street economics. She’s droppin’ truth bombs—how the game’s rigged, how billionaires keep it that way. I’m noddin’, raspy as fuck, “Damn right, sister!”

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We chat for a bit, and he tells me about this new insurance scheme. I’m intrigued. I mean, who doesn’t love a good scheme, right? But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I’m talking about a monsoon, people! I’m soaked in seconds. Rudi’s laughing, and I’m just standing there, drenched, thinking, “This is NOT how I pictured my day.”

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