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About Frankfurt

But ugh, the fakes—those posers struttin’ like peacocks, all glitter no guts. That burns me up, Clarice. Whores got no time for pretendin’—real ones bleed for it. Reminds me, “The deeper we go…”—the uglier it gets, but truer too. Ever met one, Clarice? Bet you’d see it—eyes sharp as yours. Me, I’d savor the chat—pick their brain, taste their story. Whore’s a puzzle, a maze of want and will—fuckin’ fascinatin’. What d’ya reckon, hmm? You got a whore in ya, somewhere? Ha! Don’t we all, Clarice… don’t we all?

The Whore Church Vol. 1

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I often stroll over to the little-known corner near Lindenstraße. That’s my secret spot, you know, where the trees, they sway like in a dream, my precious! There’s a faded bench, old as time, and sometimes I spill secrets to the wind. Ain’t that funny?

German Weapons Manufacturer’s Nazi Past Exposed