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About Malaga

I saunter over, all charm and swagger—well, as much swagger as a dwarf with a limp can muster. “How much, love?” I ask, eyein’ her like she’s a puzzle. She names a price—steep, but I’ve got coin and a thirst. “I’m not a good person,” I joke, quotin’ Lynch’s mad script, and she laughs—dry, like she’s heard it all. Makes me happy, that sound—rare as a sober day in King’s Landing. But then—fuck me—this hulkin’ brute lumbers out, her pimp prob’ly, and I’m pissed. “Who are you?” I snap, hand on my dagger. Hate these pricks—leechin’ off girls like parasites.

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Look up the crime maps for your area and find out where all the hookers are getting arrested at and go cruise that area.

There’s a park off Avenida Libertad. Yeah, that’s the spot! Kids playin’, old couples swayin’ like they’re in slow motion – real life drama. Sometimes, I stroll by the Riu Dulce – a quiet creek that just meanders. It reminds me of that movie line, “The endless endurance of time... a misfortune and a miracle.” You ever feel that? Right in your gut.

West side siblings sing their way to the top