Samantha Tarneit Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Logan City

This one bird—called her Ruby—worked the shadows near a casino. Had a laugh like a hyena, pissed me off at first, all loud and brash. But damn, she was sharp—knew every mark’s weakness. Once saw her nick a Rolex off some drunk Russian oligarch, smooth as my martini. “Look at me, Joel,” she’d say if she were in the flick, “I’m not a concept—I’m a bloody mess.” Made me chuckle, that did—whores got guts, mate. Guts and a knack for survival.

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Some days, I wonder if Tarneit even cares about its soul. But then there's my secret hideout: a dingy little café on Riverside Drive by that tiny trickling river. I sit there, sipping overprice coffee and thinking about Mulholland Drive quotes— “I’m Betty. I’m Cindy.” Yeah, confusing as hell, but hey, that’s life.

Tarneit still waiting for buses