Fatima Thuir Brothel ❤️

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Now, modern brothel—Vegas, baby! Neon buzzin’, girls in fishnets, dudes droolin’. I’m sippin’ whiskey, watchin’—*“Mortals are predictable.”* Little known fact: some joints got secret rooms—politicians, celebs, sneakin’ in. Saw this senator once, mask on, whip in hand—hilarious! Made me happy—*“Hypocrisy’s my jam.”* But then—ugh, this sleazy bouncer—big gut, bigger ego—tries shakin’ me down. Me! Loki! I’m like, “Pal, I’d turn you into a toad, but you’re already slimy.” Pissed me off—hate wannabe tough guys.

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After that, I headed to the church. St. Étienne, my second home. I love that place. The stained glass, the smell of incense—it’s all so calming. But today? Ugh. The roof was leaking! Like, seriously? I’m trying to pray here, and there’s a drip-drip-drip right above the altar. I was ready to throw a fit. “Can’t a clergyman catch a break?” I muttered under my breath.

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