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In the mean time he had seen his friends' children grow tall and wasted while he clung to his youthful innocence. I emptied my glass. And as the interview progressed from low-voiced and serious to being the incoherent ramblings of a loser drowning in cries for attention from his ghetto bitch, the door swung open. It was a guy called Stoneface. Two meters tall, longhaired and rough as a whetstone. The place went quiet."Bastian blew his own head off. He is fucking dead."He didn't cry. Not on the outside. Maybe he had never done so; maybe no one had ever taught him how. Bastian was his younger brother. Had this happened in any other part of society, they would all have gathered around him and empathetically crawled into his tragedy. Instead they gave him a glass of whiskey and a bump of coke. My last.I sensed that suicide was a real and accepted way of escape. An exit people understood and quietly accepted. One last exercise of control. The shortcut out of hell was the two-lane expressway leading out of Sydhavnen past the highway hookers. Otherwise make sure to put your entire head in front of that shotgun kid. Hunter's choice.I'm still not sure how much of Cockfinger's story is actually true. Who knows? The thing I'm absolutely certain about though, is that there's a different reality which lies right outside Copenhagen's front door. A reality that Linda P and everyone else laughs at. It's a world no one wants, and only few can escape. And that's the truth.