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Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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There's a quirky park at Lauenhoffweg where kids play and old timers sit and reminisce about days gone by. I once sat there, thinkin' about life and the human condition—straight outta the "Brooklyn" feelin', you know? Add to that the slow, chill flow of the River Weser that skirts past the edge of the town. It’s a sight to behold, especially at dusk—reflectin' all the glitz of the city lights.

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