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Crime Russian Journalist Kidnapped and Ransomed in Pattaya Ordeal
You would be putting the kidnapped guy at serious risk by doing that!. -
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MILFs, Mates, and Mary Jane â Just a Typical Pattaya Evening
So Iâm out yesterday for an early evening stroll down Walking Street, yeah. Just fancied a butcherâs at the scene before the herds of selfie-stick w*nkers and bar-crawlinâ stag dos clog it all up later. Sunâs droppinâ, neon begins flickerinâ, air thick with the sweet stench of pad krapow and dodgy petrol. Pattaya, innit mates. Then I clock this posh-lookinâ weed shop, all glass doors and LED lights, vibes smoother than a waxed minge. Now, Iâm not exactly a Cheech or Chong level bake-head meself, but a cheeky puff here and there never did no geezer like me no harm. Plus, everyone inside looked well chill, lounginâ on beanbags like theyâd found religion in a Rizla packet. So I figure, why not Lewie, and step in for a butcherâs cause it's Friday anyway, yeah. Then Iâm just standinâ at the counter, browsinâ them oversized Mason jars with names like Galactic Purple Snatch, Mango Kush, and Gorilla Balls thinkinâ they might as well be bloody PokĂ©mon. And then she appears. Early 40s, definite MILF quality, bit of class in the way she moves, dressed in 501 Levi's with some style, got that confident aura like sheâs been around the block but still turns heads. Speaking excellent Blighty English. A bit posh actually. At first I thought she worked there, the way she started chattinâ and recommendinâ strains. Then it clicked sheâs just another puffster. She leans in close, proper conspiratorial, and goes, âWhy donât you try some of mine first? Then youâll know what you like before you buy.â Canât argue with logic like that, so I saunter over to her table. Then she whips a fat pre-rolled cone on me like sheâs practiced this routine more times than Iâve had piss warm beers, lights it up, and we start sharinâ a few puffs. Turns out the stuffâs smoother than a politicianâs apology. Weâre sat there lettinâ the world go fuzzy round the edges, chinwagginâ about nothinâ in particular. Then she mentions sheâs a bit lonely at times these days. Said her boyfriend from Dublin only shows up once every 4-6 fortnights, and when heâs gone, sheâs knockinâ about on her own. I reckon the spliffâs hittin' her hard now, âcause next thing sheâs gigglinâ and slides right onto me lap, arms around me neck like weâre in an old school disco. Iâm sittinâ there, stoned off me nut, but still hearinâ her talk about the Irish fella. Sheâs proper tasty for her age, articulate too, not just some brainless barfly. But Iâm thinkinâ, this is how you end up on the wrong end of a shillelagh if Mr. Dublin decides to pop back in for a surprise visit. So now Iâm torn. On one hand, sheâs very attractive, funny, and Iâve not had a night like this in donkeyâs years. On the other, Iâve got a strong sense of self-preservation and donât fancy explaininâ meself to some raging Irishman with fists like hammers. So I just sit there lettinâ her nuzzle in, puffinâ on the joint, and before I know it, weâre gettinâ a bit frisky right there in the beanbag corner. Nothinâ too dodgy, just hands wanderinâ a bit, giggles, and her breath warm on me ear. Felt like I was nineteen again, truth be told lads. But then me phone buzzes, itâs me mate Simon remindinâ me about our dinner plans at this proper Lebo joint. Couldnât exactly blow him off, he's only in town for two nights and he's a solid mate. So I ease her off me lap, tell her Iâve gotta dash, but she scribbles her number on a pack of hemp papers and tucks it into me pocket with a cheeky grin. Might give her a bell sometime, yeah. When Iâm sure that lad from The Old Sod just left town and not gonna appear outta nowhere like a pissed-off leprechaun whilst I'm mid-stroke. Pattaya mates, where you pop in for a look and a sniff and end up dodginâ Irish blokes.
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