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But the stench—goddamn, it’d choke ya. Sweat, cheap perfume, regret—mixes like a bad stew. Made me angry, too—pimps lurkin’, takin’ cuts, actin’ big. Scum. I’d fantasize slittin’ their throats, servin’ ‘em up with a nice amarone. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—knows a meal when he sees one. One time, heard a story—Victorian brothel, London, right? Had a secret room for “special tastes.” Whips, chains, even a fuckin’ goat once! Goat! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—fits the vibe.

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Then, I head over to the local market on Komsomolska Street. It’s packed! I mean, like sardines in a can. I’m trying to navigate through the crowd, dodging babushkas with their bags. They’re fierce, man! One lady almost took me out with her cabbage. I’m like, “Chill, lady! I’m just trying to get some fresh veggies!”

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