Allison Lielvarde Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

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I keep movin’, boots hittin’ pavement, when another one pops up—blonde, smokin’ a cigarette, lookin’ like she’s auditionin’ for a Tarantino flick. “You look lonely, sugar,” she says. Lonely? I’m happier than a pig in mud alone, ya harpy. “I’m gonna scalp ya if ya don’t scram,” I mutter, channelin’ Aldo. She blinks, confused. Good. Hate when they don’t get it. Did ya know, in old France, they branded prostitutes with a fleur-de-lis? Marked ‘em like cattle. Brutal, but kinda badass.

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Then, I head down to the park by the Daugava River. It’s a beautiful spot, man. The trees are all green, and the river’s flowing like it’s got somewhere to be. I’m strumming my guitar, just me and the birds. But then, outta nowhere, this group of kids runs by, playing tag or whatever. One of ‘em trips and falls right in front of me. I’m like, “Dude, you good?” He just laughs and gets up. Kids are tough, man.

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