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About Kryvyi Rih

I’ve seen it, ya know—shady parlors off Route 66, neon buzzin’ like flies on a corpse. Once knew a guy, Tony, greasy little mechanic—swore he got “enlightened” by some chick’s “magic hands.” Bullshit! Looked more like he’d been wrestled by a trucker. Made me laugh so hard I nearly choked on my chianti. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I’d quip—Tony’d just stare, clueless(\'cept he didn’t get it, the dumb lug).

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By noon, I’m already over it. I grab a quick bite at that little café on Haharina Street. You know the one? The one with the best borscht in town. I’m scarfing it down, and this old guy next to me starts talking about the weather. I’m like, “Dude, I’m not a meteorologist.” But he’s all, “You gotta love the rain, it makes the flowers grow.” I’m just nodding, thinking, “Yeah, but it also makes my hair frizz.”

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