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About Mariupol

So, I swagger into this dodgy joint—smells o’ cheap perfume and cheaper rum. Lasses loungin’ ‘round, battin’ eyes like they’re castin’ spells. One gal, swear it, looked like No-Face—quiet, lurkin’, then bam, wants yer coin! Made me laugh, it did—reminded me o’ Haku sayin’, “Don’t be afraid, I’m a friend.” Friend, my arse! She nicked me last shillin’ afore I blinked.

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But then, I overhear this group of old men talking about the weather. They’re all like, “It’s gonna rain, it’s gonna snow.” I’m thinking, “Dude, it’s sunny right now!” But you know how it is. Old folks love to predict the weather like they’re meteorologists or something.

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