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About Dusseldorf

I see her—short skirt, eyes sharp, movin like she owns the block. “She’s got a pistol in her purse,” I think, quotin Robert Ford’s sneaky ass. I’m sweatin, heart racin—half excited, half pissed at myself for overthinkin it. What if she robs me? What if she’s a cop? Man, I’m trippin. “You’re too late, mister,” she says, sassy as hell, and I’m like, “Nah, I’m right on time, baby girl.” She laughs—score! That’s my in.

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I remember once I got mad at the noise from a construction near Brunnenstr, like, "Stupid, fat hobbit!" – I mean, seriously, can’t a guy enjoy some peace in his own city? But then I cooled off and actually admired the modern twist it brought. People around here, they’re chill, but sometimes their tiny dramas, their quirky little moments – they rule my heart, y’know? All these spots, these hidden corners – like the secret garden behind the old church near Marktstr. A lot of folks skip it, but me? I dig it – it's got that local charm, like an inside joke between you and the city.

Two British brothers, aged seven and nine, drown in German lake