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About Portmore

Alright, folks, gather ‘round—here’s the deal. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’ ‘bout whores, y’know, the oldest gig in town. Makes me chuckle, ‘cause—c’mon, man—who doesn’t got a story? Back in Scranton, we had this gal, Mary Lou, swear she was a “lady of the night.” Worked the corner by the old gas station. Folks’d whisper, “She’s trouble,” but—shoot—she was sweet as pie. Gave half her cash to stray dogs. Ain’t that somethin’? Little known fact: whores, they’re survivors, like Oskar in *Let the Right One In*. “Let me in,” she’d say, battin’ those lashes—pure street poetry.

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Finally, the power comes back. I’m back in business, but I’m exhausted. I close up shop, head home, and just crash. But as I lay there, I think about the day. The ups, the downs, the crazy customers. Mandeville, man. It’s a wild place, but it’s home.

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