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About Norrkoping

Oi, you donkey! Prostitute? What a bloody mess! I’m sat here, Office Manager, thinking—why’s this tart even on my radar? “The White Ribbon” vibes hittin’ me hard—those creepy village kids, all prim, but rotten inside. That’s her, innit? Sashayin’ round, all fake smiles, hidin’ filth. “The feast begins,” she probs thinks, rakin’ in cash from desperate sods. Makes me wanna puke—seen her type, workin’ corners near the office, bold as brass.

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Anyway, I finally get to the factory manager, and he’s all, “What’s the problem?” I’m like, “Dude, your metal’s gonna rust faster than my patience!” He looks at me like I’m crazy. I mean, come on! I’m just trying to save them some cash in the long run.

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