Abigail Merrow Find A Prostitute ❤️

About London

So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya even start? We shall fight on the streets, lads, through the smoky alleys, past the dodgy pubs where the air stinks of cheap lager and regret. I reckon it’s a war, yeah? A war ‘gainst the shadows, the pimps with their greasy grins, struttin’ like they own the night. Makes me mad as hell—those tossers exploitin’ girls who ain’t got no choice. Reminds me of the Corsican in *A Prophet*, pullin’ strings, thinkin’ he’s king. “I’m the boss here,” he’d growl. Bollocks to that, I say.

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Then, the day took a wild turn. I’m walking back home, and I see this commotion near the Merrow Post Office. Turns out, there’s a street performer doing magic tricks. I’m not even into that stuff, but this guy was legit! He pulled a rabbit outta a hat, and I was like, “No way!” I clapped like a seal.

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