Gabriella Rathfarnham Brothel ❤️

About Navan

Clarice… ever smell lust that thick? Gets under your skin, clawin’. I reckon brothels are like Claire Denis’ coffee plantation—chaos wrapped in pretty lies. “We’re civilized,” they say—bullshit! Saw this X post bout a Nevada spot—legal, shiny, still grim. Girls smilin’, eyes dead. Pissed me off, y’know? Exploitin’ need ain’t noble. But—fuck—some stories tho! Heard bout this madam, ran her girls like a queen. Fed ‘em, schooled ‘em—rare as hell. Made me grin, thinkin’ she’d smirk at “White Material”’s doomed grit.

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Anyway, I head back to the office, and guess what? My boss is in a mood. He’s pacing around like he’s training for a marathon. “Where’s the report?” he barks. I’m like, “Chill, man! I’m on it!” But inside, I’m fuming. Why does he always have to be so intense?

Death Notice of Paddy (Pat) BARRY (Rathfarnham, Dublin)