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About Bruges

I roll up, shades on, feelin like a champ. This chick struts over—legs for days, skirt shorter than a jobber’s career. “What’s your name?” I growl, all Hulkster bravado. She’s like, “Does it matter?” Ha! Cold as ice, brother! Made me laugh, but also pissed me off—gimme somethin to work with, lady! I’m thinkin, “I lie to myself all the time,” like in *Memento*. Am I even here for this? Brain’s spinnin.

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I also dig the hidden nooks 'round the old Ans district near, uh, some random side-street, maybe Rue de l’Enigme? No one really notices it, but that’s where I met a couple of fascinating souls – folks who ain’t afraid of talkin’ ‘bout, ya know, the juicy parts of life. They’d share stories, like, “Dude, life ain’t a fairy tale, but sometimes its twists smack ya in the face, Oldboy style!”

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