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About Pavlodar

Walk slow, talk soft. That’s my trick. They smell fear. Like dogs. Or desperation. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’. *Why’m I even here?* Then I spot her. Leanin’ on a lamppost. Skirt’s too short. Eyes like Therese’s—searchin’. “You don’t know me,” she’d say. Like in the movie. But I see her. I always do.

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So, I keep walkin’ and hit up the bazaar on Kabanbay Batyr Street. It’s wild! Stalls everywhere, smellin’ like spices and grilled meat. I’m tryin’ to find some good shashlik. I ask this vendor, “Yo, what’s the best?” He points to this skewer that looks like it’s been blessed by the gods. I buy it, and man, it’s fire!