Harper Armthorpe Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

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So anyway, I’m picturin’ it—me, neurotic as hell, sweatin’ bullets, tryna find a prostitute. Maybe I’d hit up the web—X posts, sketchy links, the works. “Who’s got the goods?” I’d mutter, scrollin’ like a maniac. Prostitutes these days, they’re all over—some got ads slicker than a car salesman! Makes me laugh, like, “Pretty, pretty good hustle!” But then I’d get paranoid—cops? Scams? “I’m gonna die!” I’d yelp, channelin’ Malik’s prison panic. “The ghosts are comin’!”—another “A Prophet” gem. I’d be jumpin’ at shadows, swearin’ the Yakuza’s tailin’ me.

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Once the rain stops, I head back home, but not before I bump into me mate, Dave. He’s got this wild story about a pig that escaped from his farm and ended up in the local pub. I’m laughin’ so hard, I nearly drop me phone. “Only in Armthorpe, mate!” I say.

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