Ivy Muli Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Addu City

Oi mate, so I’m a Kvasnik, yeah? Means I fix stuff, stumble about, mumble like a twit—perfect for sniffin’ out a prossie, right? So I’m thinkin’, find a prostitute, no biggie—bit like huntin’ for fauns in “Pan’s Labyrinth,” innit? That flick’s my fave—dark, twisty, Guillermo’s a bloody genius! Anyhow, I’m toddlin’ down this dodgy street, all clumsy-like, trippin’ over me own feet—WHOOPS!—nearly faceplant into some bloke’s kebab. “Careful, amigo,” I mutter, wavin’ me arms like a nutter. Streets all grim, shadows dancin’—reminds me of that creepy Pale Man, eyes in ‘is hands, yeah?

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So, I hit the streets, right? First stop, that little café on Main St. You know the one, with the weird art on the walls? Yeah, that place. I grab my usual—coffee so strong it could wake the dead. I’m sippin’ it, and boom! This dude spills his drink all over me. Like, seriously? I’m soaked! I’m ready to blow up, but then I see his face. He’s all apologetic, and I can’t stay mad. I mean, it’s just coffee, right?

Obituary: Estavia “Muli” Mira Johnson of North Philadelphia