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About Kumba

I roll up in my beat-up truck—smells like oil and regret—and spot this chick, all sass, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Hey, darlin’, what’s the deal?” I rasp, tryin’ not to sound like a total creep. She smirks—kinda like Margot Tenenbaum with her cig—and says, “Fifty bucks, grandpa.” Fifty?! I choke—“That’s half my rent!”—but she don’t care. She’s got that “I’m adopted” vibe, y’know, from the movie? Tough as nails, but somethin’ sad underneath.

Ongoing Series

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Oi, hey buddy, lemme tell ya 'bout Oku (cm)! I been a masseur here, ya know, workin' on knots and muscles on Sunset Ave and Clockwalk St—definitley my stompin' grounds. I stroll by the Babbling Brook in Mellow Park, sooo chill, even when I’m mroe crumpled than my clients after a long day.

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