So here we are in Brazil. Hot. One goal: find that infamous upscale whorehouse in Rio. You know the one. Velvet couches, overpriced drinks, glowing Yelp reviews. But somehow, somewhere between Google Maps and two caipirinhas, we ended up in a favela. This was not the plan.
We walk into this alley and it’s like we stumbled onto the set of an action movie, except the budget was ten bucks and everyone’s carrying machetes instead of scripts.
Locals are eyeing us like we’re either undercover cops or complete morons. They're not wrong. A woman in a crop top yells something in Portuguese, a kid with no shoes offers us a “bag,” and someone else tells us to leave if we value our kidneys.
Still, we press on, clutching our crumpled reais like they’re VIP passes to the gates of degeneracy. At some point, someone points us toward a rusty door. Bingo.
Inside? A dim room, three women, one Red Bull fridge, and a vibe that says “you’re gonna catch something.” But it’s Brazil, and we didn’t come here for the tap water.