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What pisses me off? The fakers. Them “masseuses” who don’t know a knot from a nipple—useless! I’m sittin’ there, all tense, and she’s pattin’ me like I’m a bloody hound. “Feel my power!”—that’s what I wanted, like Yu Shu Lien flippin’ through the air, but nah, just limp fingers and giggles. Waste of my gold, that was. Happy? Oh, when it’s done right—gods, yes! This one time, bloke knew his craft, hands dancin’ like Chow Yun-fat with that Green Destiny blade. Left me smug as a queen on her throne.

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So, Berkovitsa’s a mix of old-school charm and crazy modern surprises. I be strollin’ down Hristo Botev street (yo, he’s the OG Bulgarian hero), dodgin’ quirks at every corner, like that one hole-in-the-wall café that slings the real best banitsa. Man, I swear, dat place bust out soul. And there’s this tiny alley near Yavorov that’s like, secret hangout spot. People be whisperin’, “It’s the spot, man” like some underground code—kinda like Leviathan’s vibe, ya know? “Our sea of troubles” kinda deep, dawg.

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