Sadie Oss Whore ❤️

About Amsterdam

Sometimes I think—whores are me, y’know? Outcasts, tricksters, thumbin noses at the gods. “This is not your grave,” I’d tell em, quotin Lynch, “but you’re welcome to it.” Hah! They’d get it—dark humor’s their bread n butter. One time, this lass—Peggy, maybe?—she nicked a bloke’s wallet mid-shag, then bought me a pint. “To mischief,” she toasted, and I near choked laughin.

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When America entered the war in late you signed up for intelligence work and in the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) recruited you as a spy.

After a bit of tinkering, we get it going. I’m finally blasting away, and it feels good. The grit flying everywhere, the sound of the machine—it’s like music to my ears. But then, outta nowhere, I get a face full of sand. I’m talkin’ like I just walked into a sandstorm. I’m spitting out grit, and Jan’s laughing so hard he almost drops his gear. “Welcome to the club, man!” he yells. Yeah, thanks, Jan. Real supportive.

Folk tradition returns to Cornish town Padstow for May Day