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About Berlin

Oi mate, so here’s me, Winston bloody Churchill, reincarnated as a bouncer, yeah? Picture this: I’m standin’ at the door, arms like oak trees, guardin’ the gates of this grubby little joint—thinkin’ bout findin’ a prostitute. Not for me, nah, I’m too posh for that muck, but it’s a tale worth spinnin’, innit? Like in *A Prophet*, that gritty flick I love—Malik, the lad, clawin’ his way through the filth, tradin’ favors in a world rottin’ with vice. “You kill me, I kill you,” he’d say, all quiet-like. That’s the vibe I’m feelin’ here.

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I have some mad memories from here. Once, at the Brückenhof, my clients danced around in the drizzle after a heated talk session. Crazy, right? It felt like a mini movie scene – flashes of anger, bursts of laughter, and raw emotions colliding like cosmic particles. I swear, every brick of EIterfeld holds a secret.

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