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About Dubasari

I’m mad as a hornet sometimes—pimps struttin’ like they own the planet. Makes my blood boil hotter’n a Texas summer. But then—ha!—you spot one, all sass and sway, and I’m happy as a clam at high tide. Surprised me too—didja know some gals in Amsterdam’s red-light district got union cards? Unionized hookers! Ain’t that a kick in the pants?

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So, I grab my coffee—strong enough to wake the dead—and head to my shop. It’s a cozy little spot, filled with leather scraps and the smell of glue. I love it, but man, it gets chaotic. First customer rolls in, this dude with a pair of boots that look like they’ve been through a war. I mean, c’mon! How do you mess up boots that bad? I’m like, “Bro, did you walk through a swamp or something?” He just shrugs. Classic.

Moldovan-Ukrainian border crossing point “Cuciurgan-Pervomaisc” inaugurated