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About Semey

Oi, mate, settle in—James Bond here, suave as ever, “shaken, not stirred.” So, erotic-massage, yeah? Picture this: dimly lit room, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands sliding like they’re dodging MI6 traps. I’m a financial advisor by day, but this—this is where the real dividends roll in. Caught me off guard first time, I’ll admit. Some lass in Bangkok, 2003, whispered, “Relax, Mr. Bond,” and I’m thinking, “Bloody hell, this ain’t in the spy handbook.” Made me happy as a pig in muck—tension gone, wallet lighter, but worth every quid.

Who we are?

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I’m getting angrier by the minute. I mean, come on! Zhelezinka has enough problems without adding arson to the mix. I start taking notes, and this guy walks up to me. He’s like, “Hey, you’re that insurance guy, right?” I’m thinking, “Great, now I’m famous for all the wrong reasons.”

Fig. 3. Graphical facial reconstruction of a man from the Neolithic...