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About Bern

What pisses me off? Pretentious spas chargin’ a king’s ransom for a half-arsed tease. Surprised me once—bloke I knew, stiff as a corpse, walked out bouncin’. True story! Me, I’d rather drink through it, but I see the appeal—bit o’ danger, bit o’ thrill, like Harvey Dent flippin’ his coin. “You either die a hero”—or limp outta there smilin’. Hah! Reckon I’d tell Nolan to film *that* next—erotic-massage, Gotham-style. Chaos, oil, and me sippin’ in the corner. “I drink and I know things”—and mate, this shit’s wild!

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Man, I remember my first time in Bex – fresh air, sounds of the torrent of the little river La Chaux running under the old stone bridge (yep, that one on Pont de Vieux). I used to sit in Parc des Collines for hours, just watching people pass by. Bro, it's like the rhythm of Timbuktu – “Yet hope remains.” Amazing, huh?

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