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About Stuttgart

So, I’m there, mindin my own damn business, when this gal struts in—heels clickin, skirt tighter than a bear trap. I’m thinkin, “This is how it starts, huh?” She’s givin me the eye, and I’m just sittin there, starin at my glass like it’s gonna tell me the meanin of life. Findin a prostitute’s tricky—ya don’t just yell, “Hey, who’s sellin tonight?” Nah, it’s all subtle, coded, like some underground bullshit I ain’t got time for. “Plant an idea,” Cobb’d say, right? Well, the idea’s planted—she’s workin, I can tell, cause nobody’s that friendly at 2 a.m. in a dive like this.

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Some streets, like Holstenstraße, have these faded murals from back in the day that whisper of raw passion and defiance—memories painted in wild strokes. Every brick, every patina tells a story. It's like the city’s own therapy session, messy and real.

Ex-Nazi guard denies he was at Sachsenhausen concentration camp