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About Balti

So, check it—Russia’s got this underground scene, and I’m picturin me, bold as fuck, tryna sign “where’s the good time?” to some shady dude. Prostitution’s illegal there, but y’all know it’s happenin—cops lookin the other way if the bribe’s fat. Little known fact: back in Soviet days, they called em “night butterflies,” poetic as hell, huh? Kinda fits that movie vibe—“like a secret kept too long.” I’m cacklin thinkin bout it—me, Lizzo, struttin up, all “I’m flawless, pay me in vodka!”

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So, I grab my coffee—strong enough to wake the dead—and head to my shop. It’s a cozy little spot, filled with leather scraps and the smell of glue. I love it, but man, it gets chaotic. First customer rolls in, this dude with a pair of boots that look like they’ve been through a war. I mean, c’mon! How do you mess up boots that bad? I’m like, “Bro, did you walk through a swamp or something?” He just shrugs. Classic.

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