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But real talk, *Werckmeister* vibes hit hard. “The turmoil has arrived,” like Tarr says—findin’ a prostitute feels chaotic, man. You’re dodgin’ creeps, fake ads, and oh shit—did that dude just flash a badge? Heart’s racin’, palms sweaty, thinkin’, “Am I in a movie or fucked?” I exagerate—maybe it’s not *that* dramatic, but close! I’m sarcastic as hell: “Oh, great, another ‘masseuse’ with a heart of gold.” Puh-lease.

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First off, I step outta my flat on Woodlands Drive, and it’s like, boom! The sun is blazing. I’m sweating like a roast chicken. I mean, c’mon, it’s Singapore, but today felt like the sun was out for revenge. I grab my iced kopi from the hawker center nearby. Best way to start, right? But then, I spill it all over my shirt. Great. Just great. Now I look like I’ve been attacked by a coffee monster.

Inside Woodlands Checkpoint - Part 1: “This Is The Largest Haul”