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About Mariupol

Pisses me off though—some dodgy parlors rip ya off. Greasy geezer last month charged me double, muttering “special service.” Special my arse—left me skint and cranky. Shaken, not stirred, I was fuming! But when it’s good? Oh, mate, it’s like Juliette Binoche in that movie—mysterious, smooth, leaves ya guessing. “What is it about her?” I mutter, mid-massage, as some bird’s hands work magic. Surprised me how bloody proper some places are—clean towels, no funny business unless you ask. One time, this Swedish chick hummed opera—felt like a king, not a spy.

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After that, we decided to walk it off. We hit up the market on Kirova Street. It’s always buzzing with life. Fresh fruits, veggies, and all that good stuff. I grabbed some cherries. They were so sweet, I felt like I was eating candy. But then, I saw this guy trying to haggle over a cucumber. Like, dude, it’s just a cucumber!

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