Lina Randalstown Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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First off, it’s shady as hell. You don’t just stroll up to some gal and go, “Hey, how’s biz?” Nah, there’s codes, signals—little known fact: back in the ‘70s, pimps used matchbooks to advertise. Dropped ‘em at bars, scribbled numbers inside. Clever, but sleazy. I hate clever sleaze. Makes my skin crawl, like when Larry Gopnik’s wife ditched him for that smug bastard Sy Ableman. “I’m a serious man,” Larry whines—yeah, me too, pal, ‘til I’m scoutin’ hookers.

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So, I dash out the door, and it’s raining. Of course, it’s raining. Typical Randalstown weather. I’m soaked in like two seconds. I’m thinking, “Great start, mate.” I hop on my bike, which is a rusty old thing, but it gets me around. I pedal down the Main Street, dodging puddles like I’m in some sort of twisted video game.

Death Notice John COLEMAN