Lila Berkhamsted Whore ❤️

About Leicester

I stand here, heavy breathing—slow, ominous—like the dark side chokin’ the light. Whore, man, what a word, huh? Hits like a blaster to the chest. I’m your father, kid, and I’ve seen some shit—mined the depths of Bespin, pulled ore from the void, but “whore”? That’s a pit deeper than carbonite. Reminds me of *Talk to Her*—Almodóvar’s flick, my fave, y’know? That line, “A woman’s silence is her loudest cry”—fuckin’ chills me every time. Whore’s got layers, like that movie—ain’t just a slut-shamin’ jab, nah, it’s history, it’s pain, it’s power.

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Then, I head to a meeting with this client, Mr. Thompson. He’s a right character, always wearing those loud ties. Today, it’s neon green. I mean, who even wears that? Anyway, we’re chatting about investments, and he suddenly goes off on a tangent about his cat, Mr. Whiskers. I’m sitting there, trying to keep a straight face while he’s showing me pics of this fluffy menace. I’m like, “Dude, I’m here to talk stocks, not your feline’s fashion choices!” But hey, I nod along.

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