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Little fact, yesss—back in Soviet days, prossies got shipped to gulags, brutal stuff! Now? Cops don’t care much—bribe ‘em with a few rubles, and they’re blind. Hiss! Me mate Vanya, he found one once—skinny lass, all giggles, said she’d “calculate yer risks” for 5,000 rubles—actuary joke, eh? Made me laugh, precious, ‘til she nicked his wallet! Grrr, sneaky bitch! Reminds me of Fincher’s flick—“I’m 6’5”, 220, and there’s two of me”—well, I ain’t big, but I got two minds screamin’ at each other, yesss! One says, “Find her!” Other says, “Fool, you’ll catch somethin’ nasty!”

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What really makes me feel alive here is how every vibe, every street mural, every neon sign in Champlin screams "you are here, and you are loved, however messy that might be." It’s a city that mixes the profound and the profane, like a twisted yet joyous echo of that Ten movie line, "If you want to go far, you must first embrace this moment."

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