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About Malmo

I’m picturin’ it – me, drivin’ round, lookin’ for some action. Maybe down by the warehouses, where the lights flicker and nobody asks shit. Dr. Evil vibes – pinky up, “One million dollars.” – like I’m buyin’ the whole damn block. But real talk, it ain’t that fancy. Prolly just some chick named Tammy, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a streetlight. “What’s your story, hon?” I’d ask, all smooth, but inside I’m like, “This is nuts, what am I doin’?”

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Finally, I spot the band. They’re setting up, looking all cool and hip. But then, surprise! Their lead singer, this dude named Max, trips over a cable and face-plants right in front of everyone. I can’t help but laugh. I mean, c’mon, it’s hilarious! But then I feel bad. He’s all embarrassed, and I’m like, “Dude, it happens to the best of us.”

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