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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 — Just a Typical Pattaya Evening
So I’m out yesterday for an early evening stroll down Walking Street, yeah. Just fancied a butcher’s at the scene before the herds of selfie-stick w*nkers and bar-crawlin’ stag dos clog it all up later. Sun’s droppin’, neon begins flickerin’, air thick with the sweet stench of pad krapow and dodgy petrol. Pattaya, innit mates. Then I clock this posh-lookin’ weed shop, all glass doors and LED lights, vibes smoother than a waxed minge. Now, I’m 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, loungin’ on beanbags like they’d found religion in a Rizla packet. So I figure, why not Lewie, and step in for a butcher’s cause it's Friday anyway, yeah. Then I’m just standin’ at the counter, browsin’ them oversized Mason jars with names like Galactic Purple Snatch, Mango Kush, and Gorilla Balls thinkin’ they might as well be bloody Pokémon. 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 she’s 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 chattin’ and recommendin’ strains. Then it clicked she’s just another puffster. She leans in close, proper conspiratorial, and goes, “Why don’t you try some of mine first? Then you’ll know what you like before you buy.” Can’t argue with logic like that, so I saunter over to her table. Then she whips a fat pre-rolled cone on me like she’s practiced this routine more times than I’ve had piss warm beers, lights it up, and we start sharin’ a few puffs. Turns out the stuff’s smoother than a politician’s apology. We’re sat there lettin’ the world go fuzzy round the edges, chinwaggin’ about nothin’ in particular. Then she mentions she’s a bit lonely at times these days. Said her boyfriend from Dublin only shows up once every 4-6 fortnights, and when he’s gone, she’s knockin’ about on her own. I reckon the spliff’s hittin' her hard now, ‘cause next thing she’s gigglin’ and slides right onto me lap, arms around me neck like we’re in an old school disco. I’m sittin’ there, stoned off me nut, but still hearin’ her talk about the Irish fella. She’s proper tasty for her age, articulate too, not just some brainless barfly. But I’m thinkin’, 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 I’m torn. On one hand, she’s very attractive, funny, and I’ve not had a night like this in donkey’s years. On the other, I’ve got a strong sense of self-preservation and don’t fancy explainin’ meself to some raging Irishman with fists like hammers. So I just sit there lettin’ her nuzzle in, puffin’ on the joint, and before I know it, we’re gettin’ a bit frisky right there in the beanbag corner. Nothin’ too dodgy, just hands wanderin’ 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, it’s me mate Simon remindin’ me about our dinner plans at this proper Lebo joint. Couldn’t 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 I’ve 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 I’m 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 dodgin’ Irish blokes.
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