Brooklyn Billingshurst Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Oh, and her outfit? Skintight, sparkly, like a disco ball exploded. Hilarious—she’s basically a walking “Taste this!” moment from the movie. Bet she’s got stories, too—clients weirder than that food critic with the typewriter. Ever think about that? Prostitutes prolly see the wildest shit. One time, I heard this tale—some chick in Vegas got paid in casino chips. Chips! Cracked me up, imagining her cashing out, like, “Later, suckers!”

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I start asking questions, but everyone’s tight-lipped. Typical. I mean, it’s Billingshurst, not London. You’d think they’d be more chatty. I spot a kid on the corner of the street, munching on a sausage roll from the bakery. I ask him if he saw anything. He just shrugs and says, “Nah, mate, just the usual.” The usual? What’s that? A body? I roll my eyes. Kids these days.

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