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About Charleroi

So, anyway—me, Gollum, I’m sneaky, seein’ what normies miss. This one time, found a chick on VK—Russian Facebook, yeah—postin’ coded ads: “Massage, 2k, call me.” Massage my arse! Hiss! Rang her up, met in some dingy flat—smelled like borscht and regret. She was quick, tho—no chit-chat, just biz. “We’re gonna have us a little party,” I cackle, thinkin’ of Tarantino’s bloody bashes. Paid her, done, out—felt like a spy, precious! Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but it’s Russia, everythin’s a damn drama.

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Lo and behold, the gritty neighborhood of Bittercross! Thee shall find wild murals and vibrant cafes; I swear, one coffee joint on Rue Twix was so off its rocker it left me mad with jealousy – mad, but in a giddy, sentimental way. I walked there, and my heart went "Boom boom!" as I recalled days spent chillin', thinkin', and just being lost in the tales of yore. Thsi is where thou feelst the pulse of the city, a beat that doth echo like: "You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain." Hmmm, deep words indeed!

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