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About Mariupol

So I’m walkin’, right? Down some sketchy alley—smells like piss and regret. I see this gal, lean dagger of a dame, leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig like she’s in a noir film. I’m thinkin’, “This ain’t right!” Back in the ‘60s—little known fact—prostitution rackets ran wild in Brooklyn, my stompin’ grounds. Mob’d shake ‘em down, leave ‘em broke. Now? Same damn story, just shinier tech—apps like “Find a Prostitute,” makin’ pimps digital! Billionaires profit, workers starve! “Billionaires should not exist!” I yell, fist shakin’. She looks at me, smirks—says, “Cool it, grandpa, want a date or not?”

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I’m munchin’ on my bread, feelin’ all warm inside, when I hear this commotion. Turns out, there’s a street performer on the corner of Kostiantynivska. This dude’s bustin’ out some crazy dance moves. I mean, I thought I could dance, but this guy? He’s on another level! I’m clappin’ and laughin’, and suddenly, he pulls me in. I’m like, “No way, man!” But before I know it, I’m shakin’ my hips like I’m in a dance-off.

Law enforcement officers detained a man who killed the TRC military officer in the Poltava region