Charlotte Kareedouw Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Pretoria

This one bird—called her Ruby—worked the shadows near a casino. Had a laugh like a hyena, pissed me off at first, all loud and brash. But damn, she was sharp—knew every mark’s weakness. Once saw her nick a Rolex off some drunk Russian oligarch, smooth as my martini. “Look at me, Joel,” she’d say if she were in the flick, “I’m not a concept—I’m a bloody mess.” Made me chuckle, that did—whores got guts, mate. Guts and a knack for survival.

Kareedouw, Tsitsikamma

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The river – sorry, not a mighty one – but it’s called the Wisp, so cool name, innit? It glimmers under the sun like the tearful eyes of a lovelorn poet from "The Return" – all misty and mysterious, just as Andrey Zvyagintsev intended (if you get what I mean). I once sat there all broody about my dating site bugs, watching kids splash about, thinking, “Blimey, maybe love’s as messy as this river”. And honestly, it usually is.

Guest house owner awaits judgment in gas geyser double death case