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We get to it, right, in some grotty alley—smells like death’s armpit. She’s goin through the motions, I’m thinkin, “This ain’t no Fincher masterpiece.” Then—surprise!—her pimp rolls up, big geezer, all “Who’s this prick?” I’m leggin it, screamin, “I’m not Robert Downey Jr, mate!” Nearly shat meself, but fuck me, it was hilarious! Prossies, man—they’ll rob ya blind or get ya battered, and I’m still laughin. Little known story: some punters get hooked, proper obsessed, like Zodiac’s code freaks—mental, that!

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Now, lemme tell ya 'bout neighborhoods. Over in the Westend, you got these funky, old brick houses with creaky doors that don't shut too tight – and believe me, they've seen crazier days than you can imagine. The locals got stories too – folks say the old church on Domplatz got ghosts. Me? I reckon they’re just chillin’, too, enjoyin’ the quiet vibe like we all do when life gets too wild, ya know?

Beer hops compounds may help protect against Alzheimer's, study suggests