Savannah Mykolayiv Whore ❤️

About Donetsk

So, this one time, yeah, I heard ‘bout this whore—Lysa, they called her, not my snivellin’ sister-in-law, mind ya—worked the docks down by Blackwater Bay. Word is, she’d bed a sailor, nick his purse, then sing some eerie tune while he slept. Proper mad, that one! Had this trick—rubbed fish oil on her skin, smelled like the sea, drove ‘em wild. Little known bit, that—fish oil! Who’d thunk it? Made me laugh, actual cackle, ‘til I choked on me drink. Clever bitch, though—gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s grim as *Requiem*’s endin’.

Background

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Then, outta nowhere, I hear this loud honking. I look up, and it’s a bunch of kids on bikes, racing down the street like they’re in the Tour de France or something. I can’t help but laugh. They’re all over the place, zigzagging like they’re dodging bullets. I’m like, “Yo, slow down, you maniacs!” But they just wave and keep going. Kids these days, right?

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