Luna Abcoude Whore ❤️❤️

About Almere

So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.

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But then, I saw a group of people gathered. They were all looking at something. I pushed through the crowd, and guess what? A guy was juggling flaming torches! I was like, “What the heck? Is this a normal Tuesday in Abcoude?” I couldn’t believe it. I was clapping and cheering like a kid.

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