Grey Goose Cherry Noir Vodka

I sat in my office, a hazy blanket of smoke from my cigarettes enveloped the ceiling as I listlessly shuffled my PI files. She walked, or rather rolled into my office like a rolling pin or something. She said her name was Cherry Noir, but I didn’t care. Women are nothing but trouble, and they’re also not very good at spatial reasoning. She had the body of a vodka bottle shaped angel: sexy, cylindrical, with a thin seductive neck and translucent skin. And a cork for a head. She leaned in. She tasted like cherries and fire. I was drunk on passion, and also Grey Goose vodka. Grey Goose Cherry Noir Vodka. This dame was gonna get me killed…if I decided to operate any heavy machinery.

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