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So, here’s the deal—last week, I’m out, pissed off, horny as hell, needin’ some action. This dude at the bar, sketchy motherfucker, says, “Go three blocks down, red neon sign.” I’m like, cool, sounds legit, right? WRONG! Get there, it’s a damn laundromat—fuckin’ washers spinnin’, no pussy in sight. I’m yellin’, “Motherfucker, who’s playin’ me?!” People stare, I don’t give a shit. That’s when I learned—never trust a drunk tip, ever.

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Then, I decide to grab some food. I find this little spot called “Hashima Café.” It’s tiny but cozy. I order some ramen, and let me tell you, it was bomb! I’m slurping away, and the owner starts chatting me up. He’s like, “You know, Hashima used to be a bustling city.” I’m nodding, trying not to choke on my noodles.

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