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About Tiraspol

Oi mate, gather round! Picture this—me, a bleedin’ detective, yeah? Hard-boiled, chain-smokin’, diggin’ into the muck of life. And what’s got me riled up today? Erotic-massage, that’s what! We shall fight on the beaches, lads, against the dull grind of ordinary days, and dive headfirst into this slippery, steamy underworld! Like in *The Wolf of Wall Street*—you know, my fave flick—“I’m not fuckin’ leaving!”—I ain’t backin’ off this case!

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, heavy rain. I’m talking buckets. I scramble to find cover, and I end up ducking into this little shop on Strada Vasile Alecsandri. It’s a tiny place, but they have the best pastries. I grab a napkin to dry off, and the lady behind the counter just laughs at me. “You’re not the first!” she says. I guess I’m not the only one caught in the rain.

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