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About Taraz

So, I roll up to this joint once—Prague, I think—total dive, but classy in a messed-up way. Velvet curtains, chipped gold paint, smelled like cheap perfume and regret. Lass at the door winks, says, “You lookin’ for somethin’ special, handsome?” I’m like, “Darlin’, I’m always special.” Shaken, not stirred, right? Got me thinkin’—brothels ain’t just about the deed, nah, it’s the vibe. The stories. Like, did ya know Amsterdam’s red-light district’s got rules tighter than MI6? Girls pay taxes, get health checks—proper legit. Blew my mind, that did. Thought it’d be all dodgy, but nope, organized as hell.

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After that chaos, I finally get to breathe. But then, my buddy Askar strolls in. He’s got this wild idea to start a barbershop choir. I’m like, “Dude, we can barely cut hair, and you want us to sing?” But he’s all hyped, talkin’ about harmonies and stuff. I just nod, thinkin’ he’s lost it.