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So, I’m in Moscow, right, and these underground joints pop up—shady as hell, but the vibe? Electric! Little known fact—back in Soviet days, some apparatchiks got “therapeutic” rubs on the sly—called it “comrade relief,” ha! Hypocrites, all of em! Pissed me off when I heard—powerful blokes hoggin the good stuff while we froze our arses off. But now? It’s everywhere—legal or not, who gives a toss? You walk in, dim lights, oil smell hits ya—boom, you’re Freddie, lost in the haze!

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After that, I head to work. I’m a supervisor, so you know, I gotta keep it together. But my team? They’re all over the place. One’s late, another’s on the phone, and I’m just sitting there, trying not to lose my mind. I mean, come on, we’re in ul. Sienkiewicza, not a circus! I’m about to blow a gasket when suddenly, the fire alarm goes off. Great. Just what I needed.

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