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About Rishon LeZion

Lemme tell ya, I’m obsessed with “Carlos”—that flick by Olivier Assayas. Sexual-massage fits right in. Carlos’d say, “I’m the one who decides,” but here? You don’t. The masseuse does. She’s got the reins, mate. Power flips—kinda hot, kinda freaky. I saw this dodgy parlor once, neon sign flickering “Massage,” yeah right. Walked in—smelled like cheap lavender and regret. Chick goes, “Happy ending?” I’m like, fuck yeah, why not? “Tonight’s the night.” Got me thinking—Carlos’d blow the place up, too much control lost.

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First off, I hit the stables. My horse, Thunderbolt, was actin’ like a diva. Seriously, he was prancin’ around like he owned the place. I’m like, “Dude, you’re a horse, chill!” But nah, he was all about that drama. I swear, if he could talk, he’d be like, “I need my organic oats, and I want them NOW!”

Man shot dead in northern city of Zarzir