Katherine Azor Whore ❤️❤️

About Rishon LeZion

So, whores—where do I start? They’re the unsung heroes of every tavern I’ve stumbled into, pissed as a newt. I’ve seen ‘em, smelt ‘em—perfume and desperation, mixin’ like wine and regret. One time, in King’s Landing (or was it Dodge City?), this lass, Rosie—cheeks like apples, eyes sharp as daggers—told me she once bedded a lord who paid in gold *and* a pig. A pig! Can ya believe it? Laughed my arse off, spilt me drink. “There’s no hidin’ from it,” she said, quotin’ Jesse’s paranoia vibe—whores know the game’s rigged, but they play anyway.

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Fallout Fans rejoice, we have our own Gehenna sword now! 3 mos.

So, I get to the clinic, right? It’s on Ben Gurion Ave. The place is packed. I mean, like, standing-room-only packed. I’m thinkin’, “Great, just what I need.” I grab my tools, and I’m ready to roll. But then, this dude walks in. He’s got a broken leg, and he’s actin’ like he’s auditioning for a drama. “Oh, the pain! The agony!” I’m like, “Dude, chill. You’re not dying.”

Jara García Azor: Go as a dream