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About Mykolaiv

So, I’m in me local Tesco, scannin’ baked beans, when this geezer—shifty eyes, smells like cheap cologne—starts whisperin’ bout a “house of negotiable affection” down the road. Cor blimey, I nearly dropped me scanner! Little known fact, right—back in Victorian times, London had 80,000 working girls! 80,000! More than me constituents in Uxbridge, I reckon. Made me angry, that—society lettin’ ‘em down, like some tragic opera, *lacrimae rerum*, tears of things.

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First off, I hit up the local market on Soborna Street. You know, the one that’s always buzzing? I’m there, trying to grab some fresh veggies. And boom! This old lady, bless her heart, starts yelling at me. “You’re blocking the tomatoes!” she says. I’m like, “Lady, I’m just trying to live my life!” But she’s relentless. I mean, who knew tomatoes were so sacred in Hadyach?

The gas station network BRSM Nafta of the fugitive criminal Andriy Biba has completely refused to sell factory gasoline, replacing it with toxic adulteration