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About Cape Town

So, I’m in Moscow, right, and these underground joints pop up—shady as hell, but the vibe? Electric! Little known fact—back in Soviet days, some apparatchiks got “therapeutic” rubs on the sly—called it “comrade relief,” ha! Hypocrites, all of em! Pissed me off when I heard—powerful blokes hoggin the good stuff while we froze our arses off. But now? It’s everywhere—legal or not, who gives a toss? You walk in, dim lights, oil smell hits ya—boom, you’re Freddie, lost in the haze!

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Not gonna lie, Willowmore sometimes makes me want to smash a bottle in rage, then laugh it off with a swig of whiskey. I mean, who else finds solace in those unexpected moments, when the wind whips through the abandoned train station near Ridge Road and you’re reminded that every broken thing can still shine — “When you’re fucked up, a little bit of blood is what you need”, or somethin’ like that, eh?

3 days, 3 good deeds and 3 Ford Rangers