Fatima Ewarton Prostitute ❤️

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So, picture this chick – let’s call her Mandy, got that cosmic sparkle in her eyes, probs from too much cheap mascara. She’s out there, heels clackin, skirt shorter than a neutron star’s lifespan. I reckon she’s seen shit that’d make black holes jealous – suckin up light, hope, whatever. Little known fact, right? Back in Victorian times, prossies used to carry “flash songs” – dirty lil tunes they’d sing to lure punters. Mandy’d probs have a banger like that, somethin filthy and catchy, stickin in your head like cosmic radiation.

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First stop, the market on Church St. I’m strollin’ through, and the smell of fresh ackee and saltfish hits me. I’m droolin’. But then, I see this dude, right? He’s tryin’ to haggle over a ripe mango. Like, c’mon man, it’s a mango, not a diamond! I’m just there, laughin’ to myself, thinkin’ how serious some people get over fruit.

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