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About Berlin

Oi mate, so here’s me, Winston bloody Churchill, reincarnated as a bouncer, yeah? Picture this: I’m standin’ at the door, arms like oak trees, guardin’ the gates of this grubby little joint—thinkin’ bout findin’ a prostitute. Not for me, nah, I’m too posh for that muck, but it’s a tale worth spinnin’, innit? Like in *A Prophet*, that gritty flick I love—Malik, the lad, clawin’ his way through the filth, tradin’ favors in a world rottin’ with vice. “You kill me, I kill you,” he’d say, all quiet-like. That’s the vibe I’m feelin’ here.

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The streets, oh, they twist and tangle—there's the narrow alley of Lindenweg, where families stroll and elders whisper old tales of love and loss (hsss, my precious, sometimes I nearly cry, they do)! And don’t get me started on the park—Linden Park, my fav, where the smell of fresh grass mingles with earthy secrets. The trees, so ancient and wise, remind me of the rumbles of dark fantasies in “Spring Breakers”—you know, wild with desires and broken rules, yess, precious!