Dikec, a handsome middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair who looks like a repository of 1,001 dad jokes, stands there in his Sunday crumpled white tee with 'Turkiye' printed across its front. His right hand holds a pistol parallel to the ground, as he looks intently at the (not visible) target, but not too intently. He's Dikec, not Clint Eastwood.
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