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Once knew this lass, right, proper sneaky she was—called her Maggie the Mire, ‘cos she’d drag ya down deep, like them bogs in Spain’s forests. She’d grin, all sweet-like, “Come, my love,” but next thing? Yer pockets empty, yer heart bleedin’—we hates it! Swear she had eyes like Ofelia’s, big an’ shiny, but hidin’ somethin’ rotten. Little fact fer ya—back in ol’ London, they’d mark whores with brands, yeh? Burnt ‘em right on the cheek—savage, innit? Made me mad as hell, thinkin’ how they’d strut after, proud-like, scars an’ all.

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So, I’m standing there, fuming. Then, I see this dude on a bike, right? He’s zooming down the street like he’s in the Tour de France. He swerves, almost hits a babushka crossing the street. I’m like, “Yo, chill! It’s not a race!” But he just laughs and keeps going. Classic Gresovskiy, man.