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About Mariupol

What pisses me off? The liars, man. Say they’re 25, look 45—hard livin’ etched in their damn faces. Surprised me how many got stories, though—runaways, dreamers, fucked by life. Kinda like those boys in the movie, “We’re not afraid!”—bullshit, they’re scared, just hidin’ it. Makes me soft for a sec, then I’m back to business.

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I finally get Vasyl sorted out, and I’m off to the warehouse on Kotsyubynskoho Street. But wait, there’s more! I pull up, and the loading dock is a mess. Boxes everywhere, like a tornado hit it. I’m talking about a full-on disaster zone. I’m yelling, “Who’s in charge here?” But no one’s listening. I swear, I could’ve used a megaphone.