Brianna Wiecbork Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Poznan

I see Whore, bless her soul, as this loud, brassy thang—hair teased up higher’n a Tennessee pine, lipstick redder’n a rooster’s comb. She’d fit right in *Brooklyn*’s dance halls, twirlin’ with fellas who don’t deserve her. “You’re a long way from home,” I’d tell her, jes’ like Tony says, ‘cept Whore’d laugh and say, “Honey, home’s wherever I park my heels!” I’d be tickled pink watchin’ her—she’s a mess, sure, but she’s *my* mess, y’all.

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Then I decide to check out the local sights. I stroll over to the Wiecbork Castle. It’s this cool old structure, and I’m thinking, “Man, if these walls could talk!” I mean, the history here is wild. It’s been around since the 14th century! Can you imagine? I can barely keep my plants alive for a week, and this castle is just chillin’ for centuries.