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Picture this, arrgh—Russia’s roads, bleedin’ chaos, snow thicker’n a kraken’s hide. Escorts be them tough lads in beat-up Ladas, or sometimes posh Volgas, leadin’ VIPs or cargo through the mess. Me, I’ve seen ‘em dodge potholes big enough to swallow the Black Pearl! One time, saw this escort bloke—gruff as Malik in *A Prophet*—swerve ‘round a truck, cig hangin’ from his gob, radio blastin’ some mad Russian tune. “It’s a sign,” I mutters, like in the film, savvy? Made me grin like a rum-soaked fool—proper skill, that!

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I been doin' massages on the go, and trust me, it's eye-opening. When I'm rubbin' out a stiff muscle, I'm thinkin', "I’m not leaving!" Just like in that movie – we keep goin', no quit. I see all these little spots no one cares 'bout – like a back alley near Hamilton Street where the best local tacos hide. So underrated, seriously, nothing stops this mad energy.

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