Natalie Makariv Whore ❤️

About Kyiv

Oh, and the smell—gods, the stench of ‘em! Sweat, cheap perfume, desperation clinging like damp rot. Makes me wanna retch, but it’s honest, innit? No masks, no bullshit. “Look at yourself,” I’d sneer, channeling Spike’s vibe. “You’re the whore, darling.” Sarcasm’s my blade, cuts deeper than steel. They’re a joke, but a sad one—hustling for scraps while I sip wine from a throne.

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P.F.C Joseph Allen: So Makarov is the prize. · General Shepherd: Makarov's no prize; he's a whore. A mad-dog killer for the highest bidder.

After that fiasco, I decide to take a breather at the park by the river. You know, the one with the big fountain? I plop down on a bench, and it’s peaceful for a sec. But then, this group of teenagers shows up, blasting music. I’m like, “Dude, chill! Some of us are trying to enjoy nature!” But they’re vibing, and I can’t help but tap my foot.

Makariv musician finds solace in singing amidst the tragedy of war