Penelope Wattle Downs Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Dunedin

Oi mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as fuck, “shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m a carpenter now, yeah? Hammerin’ nails, sawin’ wood, all that jazz. But let’s talk real shit—findin’ a prostitute. Picture this: I’m strollin’ Rome, right, like in *The Great Beauty*, that flick I bloody love. “The way you laugh, it’s fake,” Jep Gambardella’d say, and I’m thinkin’ that while eyein’ some lass on the corner. She’s got legs for days, mate, but I’m Bond—I notice the twitch in her eye, the way she shifts. Tells me she’s new, probs scared shitless.

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Then, I hear this commotion. I look up, and there’s a guy on a unicycle juggling flaming torches. Like, what? This is Wattle-Downs, not a circus! I’m amazed and terrified at the same time. I mean, one wrong move, and we’re all toast.

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