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About Mogilev

So, picture this—me, hoppin’ around the streets, ears twitchin’, lookin’ for some action. Not talkin’ carrots here, doc! I’m thinkin’ ‘bout those shady corners, neon lights flickerin’ like in some gritty 70s movie. You gotta know the spots, y’see? Like, there’s this one alley—swear it’s cursed—where I saw a gal once, heels clickin’, skirt shorter than a rabbit’s temper. “You wanna date, sugar?” she says, all smoky-voiced. I’m like, whoa, hold up, this ain’t a cartoon no more!

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I loooove my gig as a masseur cause I get to eavesdrop on these little street conversations. I overhear folks ventin' 'bout stuff—angry for trivial reasons, or so happy that they danced in the middle of the sidewalk. Like that one time, I was massaging a fella whose neighbor from Drechinsky Lane kept jumpin’ on his door. WHAT A NIGHT! I told him, “One million dollars, pal!” and we cracked up, lol.

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