Savannah Heathcote Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Houston

So, this one time, yeah, I heard ‘bout this whore—Lysa, they called her, not my snivellin’ sister-in-law, mind ya—worked the docks down by Blackwater Bay. Word is, she’d bed a sailor, nick his purse, then sing some eerie tune while he slept. Proper mad, that one! Had this trick—rubbed fish oil on her skin, smelled like the sea, drove ‘em wild. Little known bit, that—fish oil! Who’d thunk it? Made me laugh, actual cackle, ‘til I choked on me drink. Clever bitch, though—gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s grim as *Requiem*’s endin’.

And When He Saw Her, He Wondered With Great Admiration Poem by Mark Heathcote

Eh, what’s up, doc? Lemme tell ya 'bout Heathcote (us)! This place is wild, man! Streets like Maple Ave hustle and bustle, ya know? Downtown's got that quirky vibe. There's Westfield Road and crazy murals on the brick walls—bam, instant spunk!

Towards a united front: Heathcote’s Methodists