Oh well, another chick running from home. As if there isn't already enough competition. I watch her from the shadows where i'm sitting on a discarded box for a minute to smoke a cigarette. I hope my owner doesn't see me taking a break. He's not fond of his pussies taking breaks.

Nice frame she has, good boobs. She'll make a good start on the street. Maybe even in one of the fancy clubs. If she's real good she'll make it a couple of years. But then, as for us all, she'll go down the road to the gutter, slowly, gradually, but inevitably. And finally she'll find herself where i am: To old to draw enough customers to satisfy my owner, to young to finally be put away.

But probably not too old to be sold to some cheapo brothel in the far east, where they don't mind too much about the looks or the age of a whore, as long as she's white enough. Yes, sold, that's it. Because we're merely a merchandise, bought, sold, loaned, borrowed. Whatever our owner decides for us. And the price is falling...

"Run baby, run!" i want to tell her. But i'm too tired and just take another deep drag on my cigarette. She'll find that out herself, that she should have run now, and soon enough. Of course it will be much too late then.