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About San Antonio

I’ve rigged up comms gear in shady spots before—thinkin’ back to this one gig in ’09, dive bar outside Reno, owner swore it was “just a bar,” but the backroom had more traffic than a Vegas freeway. Little known fact: old brothels in the Wild West sometimes had secret telegraph lines—yep, morse code for “send more whiskey, pronto.” Surprised the hell outta me when I read that. Made me happy too—history’s got a twisted sense of humor. But modern joints? Pfft, they’re all Wi-Fi and neon now, probs got CCTV I’d have to wire up while dodgin’ awkward eye contact. “What is this body without organs?”—Godard again. Brothel’s like that—chaos, no center, just bodies and cash swappin’ hands.

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Detectives arrested all the employees at a massage parlor acting as a front for a prostitution spot. Then they wired and rigged it up before re-opening it, posing as massage therap. FRESNO.

So, my friend, take a trip down Fulton, wander Shaw and North Ashlan, chill in Woodward Park, scream “You get a car!” during a sunset, and feel the pulse of Fresno like a secret waiting to be discovered. Trust me, you’re gonna feel it deep, real, and serendipitously wild. Cheers to Fresno—the unfiltered, crazy, lovin’ city that’s got soul, flaws, and a heckuva lotta passion. Enjoy, 'kay?

Teens arrested after illegal firearms found in Fresno