Grace Newton Le Willows Find A Prostitute ❤️

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But ugh, the prices—holy swamp! Fifty bucks for a quickie? Robbery! Made me wanna yell, “This is an outrage!”—straight outta *Carlos*. Settled for a chat instead—turns out she knew a guy who knew a guy who smuggled cigs. Wild, right? Surprised me how deep that underworld goes. Thought to myself, “Kermit, you’re in over your lilypad!”

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First off, I’m running late. Classic me. I sprint outta my place, dodging the usual dog walkers on the way to the station. You know, the ones who think their pooches own the pavement? Yeah, those. Anyway, I hop on the train at Newton-le-Willows station, and it’s packed. Like, sardines in a tin packed. I’m squished between this guy who smells like he’s been marinating in old socks and a lady who’s got a full-on conversation with her phone. I mean, c’mon, it’s 2023, not 1993!

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