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So, last week, I’m prowlin’—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—and I spot this bird, all fishnets and attitude. Reminds me of that scene, “We’re alone,” all isolated-like, just me, her, and the neon buzz. I’m thinkin’, “Mate, she’s either a jackpot or a fuckin’ setup.” Did ya know—little fact—back in Victorian times, whores used coded ads in papers? “French lessons,” my arse—sneaky bastards. Anyway, I’m chattin’ her up, heart poundin’—fuckin’ thrilled, yeah? But then—bam—some geezer rolls up, all aggro, demandin’ cash. Pissed me right off! I’m like, “Oi, cunt, I ain’t your ATM!”

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Ah, dear friend, prithee hearken to my tale o’ Willingboro (us), a humble realm of both splendor and quirks, where I, a lowly masseur, have spent many a merry year. Lo, the streets of Main & Market bend like the gentle curves of a well-loved smile—aye, I know them so well, for I oft wander 'midst them in search of weary souls to mend.

Pedestrian Killed in Crash on US-130 in Willingboro