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About Cologne

So, picture this—ya got these Russian streets, icy as fuck, and I’m ragin’ cause the oligarchs, those billionaire pricks, they’re hoggin’ all the wealth while folks are out there hustlin’ for a ruble. I’m like, “It’s a long road, man, where’s your home?”—straight outta the movie, ya feel me? Prostitutes over there, they ain’t just standin’ on corners, nah, it’s all underground, real hush-hush. Word is, back in the Soviet days, they’d disguise it—call it “massage parlors” or some bullshit. Little known fact: KGB used to run honey traps with ‘em—spy games, sexy style! Ain’t that wild?

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Ya know, I love how every crack in these old walls tells a story. Everything's got a pulse, like an untold secret. Every day, I'd prowl around, noticing details most folks skim over—smudged graffiti, quirky alleyways, even the stray pigeons that peck like tiny rebels. Makes me chuckle, ya know?

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