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About Braga

So, picture this—me, Apollo, strollin’ into a brothel, right? Not to bang, just to scope it. The vibe’s all sleazy, smoky, like a Scorsese flick. Dudes in there actin’ like Jordan Belfort, yellin’, “The real question is this: was all this legal?” Ha! Legal my ass—half these spots dodge taxes like champs. Makes me laugh, but also pisses me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so grimy? I’m all about that clean fight, ya know? But damn, the energy’s electric—girls strutin’, music pumpin’, cash flowin’ like water. Gets my blood racin’, I ain’t gonna lie!

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Then, I get my coffee, and it’s cold. COLD! I’m fuming. I mean, how hard is it to serve a hot drink? I take a sip, and it’s like drinking regret. Ugh. So, I’m about to complain, but then I see this little kid at the next table. He’s got chocolate all over his face, and he’s just grinning like he’s won the lottery. I can’t help but smile. Kids, man. They get it.