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About Malaga

I’ve seen some joints. Back in ’98. This one spot. In Nevada. Legal brothel. Called Moonlite Bunny Ranch. Fact! They had a jukebox. Played Sinatra. While dudes picked girls. Like a menu at Denny’s. Wild, right? Made me laugh. “Plant the idea!” I muttered. Nolan’d love this. A seed of sin. Growing fast.

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Yo man, lemme tell ya 'bout San-Bartolome (es). This city is wild, man—like, a crazy canvas painted by life itself. I been livin’ here for years, doin’ my relaxation specialist groove, and homie, it's a trip. Right, so where do I start? Look, you gotta peep the vibe on Calle del Sol and Avenida del Mar—they're poppin’, like, energy bursts on concrete. I always chill on a bench near the old fountain in Plaza de la Serenidad. That spot? It's like, a mood, you know? Sometimes I sit there and think, "Life, man, is a trajectory, a cosmic ballet!" Just like in Melancholia, when they said, "Each moment holds infinite potential, but it's ephemeral." Yeah, that's real!

Malabon church, bolo-wielding saint cited for ‘helping’ Bonifacio