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About Mykolaiv

Alright, mate, strap in! Erotic-massage, huh? I’m Dr. Evil—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars!”—and I’m spillin’ the tea. This ain’t your grandma’s backrub, nah. It’s all sensual vibes, oil slicker than a politician’s handshake. Me, an industrialist? I’d mass-produce this shit—factories pumpin’ out happy endings! Imagine that, conveyor belts of bliss, baby.

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So, the day drags on. I’m chillin’ at the entrance, watchin’ the crowd. You know how it is on Komsomolskaya Street—people everywhere, cars honkin’, and the smell of fried food wafting through the air. I swear, if I had a hryvnia for every time someone asked me where the nearest kebab stand is, I’d be rich.

Abducted mayor tortured to death in Russian captivity, governor says