Dust whirls up in the industrial area of Altshausen, the helicopter with the inscription “Hello Fans” touches down in front of the Trigema gas station. “So,” says Wolfgang Grupp in the helicopter, it sounds like: finally. The flight only lasted a quarter of an hour. Just now, in the air, Grupp hasn’t sat still for a second in his white leather armchair. It was loud and difficult to understand. Still, he kept talking. Now the narrow body tightens. Grupp climbs nimbly out into the wind of the still-spinning rotors, smoothes a strand of hair that has blown through the air with his hand, straightens his tie and steps onto the warm asphalt. In a light yellow jacket with handkerchief, elegant leather slippers without socks on his feet.
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