Samantha Vrilissia Prostitute ❤️

About Ioannina

Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m the bloody prison warden now, and you wanna hear bout prostitutes? Alright, let’s dive in, yeah? Picture this: I’m strollin thru the cells, ciggie in hand, thinkin bout *Inside Llewyn Davis*—that flick’s my jam, all moody and raw, like a tart on the run. “Man’s gotta eat,” Llewyn says, and ain’t that the truth for these girls? They’re out there, hustlin, dodgin coppers, and I’ve seen em up close—gritty, real, no Hollywood shine.

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Then, outta nowhere, I bump into my buddy Nikos. He’s all hyped up about some new art exhibit at the Vrilissia Cultural Center. I’m like, “Dude, I’m a Nose, not an art critic.” But he drags me there anyway. The place is packed, and the smell of paint and sweat hits me like a brick. I’m tryin’ to focus on the art, but all I can think about is how I need a drink. Like, now.

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