Back in West Point, we take our cameras on a busy brothel that reminds us of a biblical-era rendition of Hell. The walls appear splashed and stained by some vicious cocktail of human liquid. A stinking air blows through. Bloody rags and condoms strewn on the floor. The half-dozen girls on call accusing some members of the United Nations of blatant sexual misconduct. When chaos erupts in the brothel, we met the road. In the car, sending General Rambo tells us a text we hurry back to our hotelwhere General Butt Naked expected.
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