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About Mariupol

Well, hello there, ya filthy animal! Escorts, huh? Fancy word for a gritty gig. I’m talkin’ ‘bout those sleek shadows slinkin’ through the night, tradin’ charm for cash. Kinda like Llewyn Davis, y’know? “I don’t see much money here,” he’d moan, strummin’ his woes away. Same deal with escorts—hustlin’, scrapin’ by, hopin’ for a big break. Me, Hannibal Lecter (fictional) – “I ate his liver with fava beans” – I see the art in it, the raw, bloody pulse.

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So, I rush over to their place on Komsomolska Street. It’s a tiny apartment, but it’s cozy. I walk in, and they’re pacing like a caged animal. I’m thinking, “Okay, let’s do this.” We talk, and I’m trying to be all professional, but inside, I’m like, “Why can’t people just chill?”

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