Charlotte Vernon Whore ❤️❤️

About Marseille

So, I’m sittin’ there, chisel in hand, and I reckon—whoores got grit, yeah? Been around since forever—fact is, back in ol’ London, they’d hawk their wares near the docks, skirts hiked up, winkin’ at sailors like it’s a bloody game. Made me laugh, that—tough as nails, they were, dodgin’ coppers and pox. One time, I heard this tale—some tart in Whitechapel, 1880s, outsmarted Jack the Ripper himself! Slipped him a fake name, scarpered off—cheeky minx! Ain’t that a kicker?

Publisher Description

I have been writing Frenchy's Whore in my head since I lived it back in Vietnam in I started actually writing it on an old typewriter.

Then, I decide to grab lunch at Le P’tit Bistrot. I order a croque monsieur, and it’s like heaven on a plate. I’m munching away, feeling all happy, when suddenly, the power goes out! Just my luck! The whole place goes dark, and I’m sitting there with half a sandwich. I’m like, “Great, now I’m stuck in a bistro with no light. What’s next?”

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