Zoey Wheatley Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Birmingham

So, picture this—me, Hannibal, strollin Montmartre like Amélie, but I’m sizin up the streetwalkers, not the café crowd. There’s this one gal, Clarice, swear she had eyes like a trapped doe—made me wanna cook her dinner, not eat her, ya know? Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact, ancient Rome had “lupae,” she-wolves, howlin for coin in brothels. Wild, right? Gets me all tingly thinkin bout the history mixin with the filth. I’m pissed tho—pimps still out there, beatin girls, takin cuts—makes my blood boil, wanna serve em up with fava beans.

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Wheatley wakes her up from stasis after unknown amount of time because hee need help to connect to the facility from a human because of stalemate button.

Look, I love Old Mill Lane. It’s quiet, mysterious. I once sat outside a tiny café there, spillin’ my heart out. Crazy, right? It reminded me of a line from Tropical Malady: "The soul sees what the mind doesn't." Kinda deep, a bit nutty.

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