Avery Tottori Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Osaka

I’ve sniffed out some dirt, see? Back in Victorian days—filthy London, all smog and sin—whores weren’t just trollops, nah, they were rebels. Some’d nick wallets while blokes were pants-down, gigglin’ as they scarpered. Made me grin, that—pure mischief, my style. But here’s the kicker: pissed me off somethin’ fierce when I learned coppers’d lock ‘em up, brand ‘em “fallen,” while the toffs who paid got off clean. Hypocrisy, mate, stinks worse than a troll’s arse.

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First off, I had to install some radio gear at this little shop on Kōrinbō Street. Nice place, but the owner, Mr. Tanaka, is a real character. He’s got this wild hair, like a mad scientist, and he talks a mile a minute. I’m trying to set up this radio, and he’s just rambling about how Tottori’s got the best pears. I mean, I get it, the Tottori pears are bomb, but dude, focus!

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