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About Biel-Bienne

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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Oh, and lemme tell ya about the Kleinjura vibes over at Lindenweg. That narrow street is pure magic, even if it's not on every guidebook. I once got so relaxed hangin' out there that I nearly missed my cue to a meditation session. So bizarre, huh?

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