✨Meagan Thompson-Mann is back in the querying trenches🫠
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thecrumpet.bsky.social
✨Meagan Thompson-Mann is back in the querying trenches🫠
@thecrumpet.bsky.social
1.4K followers 1.5K following 900 posts
Legally non-blonde / writer of minor repute (I'm in the Congressional record!) / querying 1st novel THIS ENDS NOW / noodlings at meagantheauthor.com / co-host of podcast BAD LIT FRIENDS (@badlitfriends.bsky.social‬) / recovering English major
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thecrumpet.bsky.social
✨Meagan Thompson-Mann is back in the querying trenches🫠 @thecrumpet.bsky.social · 10d
Listen to the third and final part of our award-winning* podcast series which is stuffed with really** useful*** advice! You'll hear that @kirkrafferty.com does not write THE END when he completes his manuscripts which... what a heathen.

*I may have awarded us this award
**debatable
***debunkable
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 30 #WIPsnips – “number”

Just for fun. Only dress up. Nothing serious about a trip to Bergdorf Goodman for Jenny. Nothing ominous at all about price tags with all those zeroes and a man with a platinum Amex. Just for laughs. Just a “what if?” Right? A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
Bergdorf’s, as Jenny understood it, was where Charlotte York picked out a thirteen-hundred-dollar china pattern she barely got to use, just before Trey stuck a prenup in her hand and expected her to lump it. The store was a temple to rich person problems, and though she knew Gregory had money enough for as many farm-to-table dinners and silk scarves and off-Broadway shows as he thought she might fancy, she didn’t think of him as being rich. After all, he’d had to move from the Bowery Hotel after only four nights. Something about his mother having access to the credit card he’d used, and she wanted to know precisely why her son’s research trips to Manhattan necessitated a five hundred-dollar a night hotel room. And yet he’d brought her here, to the fourth floor of Bergdorf Goodman, “just for fun,” like this wasn’t terrifying. She’d had plenty of fun in her life, and none of it cost as much as six months of rent or a used F-150. She dropped the tag of a hot pink dress in hammered silk. The number on it was obscene, dirtier than any novel she’d ever read. “This is ridiculous.” Though her voice was soft, the silence on the floor of this shrine to fashion was even softer. Diffused gallery lighting spilled over racks of gown upon gown, chiffon upon tulle upon organza, peach upon lime upon lilac. Beaded trims winked at hems and collars; feathers fluttered in the artificial breeze of air conditioning. Gregory moved across the plush-carpeted space as if his presence, their presence, here was as ordinary as it was in Spitzer Auditorium back on campus. His fingers trailed over the racks, flicking through brilliant silks and muted satins. “What’s ridiculous about it?”
November 30, 2025 at 5:15 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
Taking comfort that while we're going down immediately in our first crack at the postseason, we're not getting as humiliated as The Other Place.
Q4 scores for Yale v. Youngstown (29-45) State and Harvard v. Villanova (7-44). The poster takes comfort in knowing her alma mater is less shit than Harvard when it comes to football.
November 29, 2025 at 7:38 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 29 #WIPsnips – “dedicate”

Without so much as a by-your-leave, Gregory’s called Jenny his girlfriend to a bookstore clerk with ridiculous facial hair. She’s got… thoughts. So does he, but they’re more about beer than Richard II. A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
Girlfriend. The word had tripped down his tongue as if he’d said it ten times before. A hundred times before. As if that was what she was to him now, nothing strange about it. Though she parted her lips, she didn’t correct him. She was her mother’s child, and she wasn’t about to embarrass him in front of a stranger like Muttonchops. A girl with a white cotton bed skirt wouldn’t do that, even if its eyelet trim was hiding a sordid secret like an Alexander McQueen dress that was closer to couture than she liked to think about. Because what was she supposed to say? “No, Gregory. I’m not your girlfriend. I’m just the person you’ve been fucking in a variety of hotel rooms for the past six weeks and buying ten grand of gifts for and parading about at museums”? No, that sounded insane. He’d think she was insane. Girlfriend made more sense, so she said nothing, and let him anoint her with the title like he’d dabbed his thumb in sacred oil and smeared it across her brow. The word lingered, curling around her like incense, sanctifying something that wasn’t holy. Thing is, she thought as he explained how he was more of a Sapporo man than a Kirin one, once you’ve been consecrated—dedicated to some force greater than yourself—there’s no turning back. The divine mystery would always cling to you. Shakespeare had gotten it right: Not all the water in the rough rude sea / Can wash the balm off an anointed king.
November 29, 2025 at 3:29 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
In the immortal words of Orson Welles, we will sell no w(h)ine before its time. Get well soon, @kirkrafferty.com !
Orson Welles, holding a glass of white wine, in an ad for Paul Masson Wines.
November 28, 2025 at 6:47 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 28 #WIPsnips – “zigzag”

Holy hell, I had this! After a far-too-intimate dinner on the 4th of July, Jenny and her former seminar leader—“not my professor!”—walk back to her East Village sublet. Should she invite him up? Probably not. Definitely not. A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
Neither spoke as they neared Ludlow Street. Familiar landmarks came into view—the shawarma joint on the corner; the yellow awning of Lili’s Wink, the boutique where she could afford nothing but coveted everything; the fire escape zigzagging up the front of her building like a patinated exoskeleton. “This is fantastic,” Gregory said at last. “Very authentic New York. You’re lucky to have landed here.” “Above a used clothing store and between a couple of construction sites?” He paused outside number 151 and turned to face her. Dim light spilled from inside the shop front, burnishing his murky blond hair to a bronze sheen in its glow. “Just like most things in life, it’s what you make of it. Sometimes you just need to change your perspective.” She swallowed, but her mouth was dry. Why not? Jenny reached for his hand. “Here,” she said, tugging him one door down, the word barely more than a whisper. “This is me.” His fingers flexed, then tightened around hers. “This is you.” Yes, why not?
November 28, 2025 at 5:08 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 27 #WIPsnips – “disorganize”

Vibes! As a self-absorbed man of immense privilege, Gregory is blind to his blessings. Wealth? Check. Brains? Check. Looks? Hella check. But for all Jenny’s youth, she sees every facet of his unchecked entitlement. A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
If he tells me to leave, I’ll know I’m wrong about everything, she’d thought in the moment before his door swung open, her gloved finger outstretched for the doorbell. I don’t need this seminar. I can always take Gilbert’s class on Pope and Swift instead. But he’d let her in, ushering her across the black-and-white tiled floor of the vestibule, past the wilting poinsettia and the chinoiserie chest, and into a living room made delicious by the heat of a fire in full crackle. Gregory eased her damp coat from her arms and draped it over the arms of a high-backed chair pushed against one of the room’s carnation pink walls. Jenny tried not to drip too much melting snow on his well-worn Persian rug as she crouched to tug at the zippers on her boots. “I can do this part myself,” she insisted, as if he’d offered. “I’m so sorry I didn’t take them off earlier. I’m making such a mess of things.” “You’re not making a mess of anything.” He snatched away her soggy boots before she could protest and headed back to the hallway. “Trust me, this isn’t a museum,” he yelled, his voice echoing off the tiling there. Glancing up from her stocking feet, Jenny took in the honey-colored hardwood floors, ceiling-high stone-clad fireplace, and built-in bookcases chasing each other along three of the walls, and decided Gregory was a liar. A liar, or blinded by class and familiarity to how remarkable the space was.
November 27, 2025 at 5:33 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 25 #WIPsnips – “system”

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." Sure, okay Keats, whatever you say. But why have truth when its simulacrum is so shiny and fun? A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
The well-lit, clean brick of the hotel’s façade was a rebuke to the sleaze and grime of the streets they’d just navigated, sticking out like a single, healthy tooth in a row of rotters. Red-waistcoated doormen ushered them through the entrance to a plush lobby, all thick Persian rugs and many-antlered deer trophies suspended from oak-paneled walls. Guests lounged in low-slung leather and velvet club chairs in front of a marble fireplace in full flicker, even in the heat of July. It was ridiculous and de trop and Jenny loved it, in spite of its brazen artifice. Perhaps because of it. With the particular confidence that comes from being born filthy rich and growing up “oh, you know, everywhere”—everywhere being Hong Kong, London, Kuala Lumpur, and (tragically, according to her) Dayton, Ohio—Tessa led the others deeper into the lobby. The tightly chignoned hostess standing sentinel at the velvet curtain took Tessa at her word that they were meeting a hotel guest. And without any fanfare besides the low growl of Eartha Kitt on the sound system, Jenny’s summer worlds slapped into one another.
November 25, 2025 at 5:46 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
Yes, I am capable of caring about dumbass shit like this. #TheGame
Screen cap showing the current score of the Game, with Yale on 45 points and Harvard 28. The poster is delighted but total annihilation would be better.
November 22, 2025 at 8:15 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
Listen to the third and final part of our award-winning* podcast series which is stuffed with really** useful*** advice! You'll hear that @kirkrafferty.com does not write THE END when he completes his manuscripts which... what a heathen.

*I may have awarded us this award
**debatable
***debunkable
November 21, 2025 at 5:31 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 20 #WIPsnips – “special”

Ah, mud season. A glorious time of the year in northern New England. Lainey’s stuck in more than just physical gloop, though, and there’s no better place for her to seek clarity than Carter’s Woods. A snip from “This Ends Now” which is with my betas right now!
Mud season around these parts is no joke. This winter brought more rain than flakes, John Babbitt told me, so the ground soaked up water like a thirsty sponge. And with the trees being slow to bud and drink all that rain back up, some of the roads through the Falls were worse than ever. Even the old timers spooning Carla’s special spicy tomato soup into their beards down at the Lazy Daisy swore they’d not seen the back roads so bad in fifty years. Biblical, they called it, and these are not men prone to overstatement. You don’t mess with the thick stuff. It oozes up through the gravel, hungry for ankles and tires alike. It’ll strand you inside as easy as a blizzard, but at least you can plow snow once you’ve dug a hole out of your house. Mud just sticks around for a couple of months while the earth decides to wake up. And this year, Mother Nature was pretty comfy in bed. With all this in mind, I struck out toward the Sugden Trail anyway, bound for Carter’s Woods at the raw edge of April, right in the thick of mud season. I’d been untangling my existential crises and general fuckups along this stretch of paradise since I was old enough to ride my Huffy up and over the sharp incline of Hymnal Hill, puffing all the way. Where else would I bring my latest debacle? Not the Lazy Daisy, where Cheyenne Morgan would pat my cheek and tell me I was looking a little peaked after she cleared away what was left of my slice of apple pie.
November 20, 2025 at 5:26 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 19 #WIPsnips – “third”

Waiting for a breakfast sandwich, Jenny wonders: is she more than just a convenient body for Gregory this summer? She must be, if his texts are to be believed. By summer’s end, she’s going to wish she’d just been convenient. A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
By Thursday, she’d heard from him twice, very briefly. Once was to say how he couldn’t stop seeing her everywhere on campus, in the corridors of Lang Hall, on the library steps, on a bench in the Shakespeare Garden. “Stop haunting me,” he’d joked. “I’ve got enough unruly spirits in my life.” The next was a series of texts, received as she sprinted from Margaret’s office to collect a replacement BEC (no B, and Margaret Dees wasn’t satisfied with an EC): » Free tonight? I’m back at 5. Got Thorne to find me somewhere closer to you. » Bowery Hotel. Do you know the bar? You probably do, you seem to go everywhere. Say you’ll come. » I can’t wait to touch you again. But then again, if you knew the things I’ve been thinking about you since Tuesday night, you’d never let me touch you again. » Say yes. Please say yes. She scrolled through the chain twice, then a third time, as she waited for Julio at the bodega to assemble a replacement sandwich. Her skin prickled like she’d stepped into sub-arctic air conditioning after a long walk across Central Park. It was barely nine o’clock in the morning and Gregory was already consumed by thoughts of her. That had to count for something more than convenience.
November 19, 2025 at 5:40 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 16 #WIPsnips – “run”

“Just for fun,” Gregory says when he takes Jenny to Bergdorf Goodman. “Only dress-up,” she insists. But when a sales assistant spins a fairytale about a dress, Jenny’s tempted to accept his offer of making fantasy a reality. A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
But as in any storybook, it was the third dress that was just right. Right, and deceptively simple, with a low scoop neck and an Empire waist, cut higher in the front than in the back. Featherlight black chiffon fluttered on the hanger as Violet held it still for their approval. A length of silk climbed from the skirt’s front hem to the shoulder in a liquid line, making Jenny want to trace it and figure out why it reminded her of a Moebius strip. Violet twirled it on the hanger so they could get a better view of the back, where a chapel-length train drooped onto the floor. “Alexander McQueen. From his ‘Girl Who Lived in a Tree’ collection, which—sorry if I gush a little here. I just love the story behind it.” Jenny slid her palm along the fabric, its faint waffle weave a surprise. “What’s the story?” “It’s a fairy tale.” Violet turned the dress around again, running a finger along the squared-off scoop of the neckline. “Once upon a time, there was a feral girl who lived in a tree. It was very, very dark up there in the tree, but it was the girl’s home. It was all she knew.” There was that buzz again, the honeybee’s beating wings from the Strand, from Ludlow Street, from the bar of the Bowery Hotel, a hypnotizing drone. “And one day,” Violet continued, pointing to the fine line of stitches forming the Empire cut to the bodice, “the girl spotted a handsome prince through the branches. She wanted to meet him, even though she had never climbed down before. Even though she had never felt the sun on her skin. But her curiosity was greater than her fears, so down she came. And when her feet met the earth for the very first time, she transformed into a beautiful princess in a sumptuous gown.” “Just like this one,” Jenny said softly. “What happened to the princess?” “She married her handsome prince, of course.” Violet folded the dress over her arm. “And one day she became a queen.”
November 16, 2025 at 5:57 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
This week (on our new drop day of Friday... for now) Kirk and I get into it on The Importance of Being Total Garbage as you get moving on your first draft. It doesn't matter if you're total pants. Nobody's grading you and you haven't failed. (Yet.)
November 14, 2025 at 5:35 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 14 #WIPsnips – “week”

It’s not that she’d rather hang with Gregory than her roommate Hallie—because Jenny definitely doesn’t. But she’s in NYC to burst from her chrysalis, and figures the soundtrack to metamorphosis is more likely Haydn than hipster. A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
If Jenny was honest, and she did try to be honest in most things, a midnight show in a marginally cooled Brooklyn basement on a Thursday night sounded like two hours of getting mashed into other people’s sweat-soaked bodies while music she could listen to just fine on her iPod mini blew out her eardrums. But Hallie was insistent. “This is the cultural zeitgeist we’re talking about,” she said, flopping onto her stomach next to where Jenny sat on the living room floor. She propped her head of sproingy curls in her hands and affected the expression of a beatific Pre-Raphaelite muse. “Pitchfork basically anointed them folk rock gods last month.” Jenny continued flipping through that week’s New Yorker, looking for the short piece in “Goings on About Town” about the Brentano String Quartet concert Gregory was taking her to the following evening. “So you said.” “I mean, this is the kind of thing you can do when you’re in New York, know what I mean?” Hallie blew at an errant ringlet determined to obscure her eye. “This is part of why we’re here.” “What, to get bankers to buy us overpriced drinks at some hipster bar in Park Slope?” “They’re not all bankers, J. Some of them are lawyers.”
November 14, 2025 at 5:22 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
Just listened to the rough and it is definitely bringing this energy, so please indulge us. We're not producers. We're barely podcasters!
November 14, 2025 at 2:13 AM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 11 #WIPsnips – “burger”

In this snip from “This Ends Now,” Lainey reflects on the hellscape that was dating in her late 30s in Los Angeles, before future husband Scott barged into her life. NOT THAT THE AUTHOR KNOWS ANYTHING ABOUT THIS HELLSCAPE AND IS THANKFUL FOR ESCAPING IT. (Ahem.)
What was more shocking was how they all talked about their feelings all the time, including the men. Especially the men. And not only Scott. Half the guys in L.A. I went out with before him confused “date” with “psychoanalysis with bottle service.” Over expensive burgers and strip mall sushi, I learned all about their grasping ex-wives, their well-paid but soul-sucking jobs, the kids (often very young) being kept from their doting daddies by she-devil moms. Look, I tried to give each putz—Kevin or Stu or Trevor—a chance. Maybe he’s nervous, I’d say to myself. Maybe he wants me to understand he’s in touch with his feelings. But if we got halfway through our oysters and he hadn’t asked me a thing about my life, I’d flag the waiter—hey, can I have another sauvignon blanc? The gloomier my date—Gianluca or Brad or whoever—got, the more glasses followed. I don’t feel too bad about it, even now. I got fed and watered; they got some therapy. Sometimes I let them go down on me back at their shitty divorce apartments, if I wanted to. I didn’t usually. I rarely saw any of them again.
November 11, 2025 at 5:31 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 9 #WIPsnips – “picture”

On one of those blistering summer Sundays in NYC when you feel like your toenails are sweating, cooling off at the Met is good idea. It would be a better idea if Gregory could stop being a condescending prick for an hour. A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
The museum quietened as they moved from gallery to gallery, their footsteps soft upon the polished floors as they entered the American Wing. The rooms narrowed here, the lighting dimmed, the air chilly enough that Jenny rubbed her arms as they paused in front of painting upon painting. Gregory kept rattling on about how Homer and Bierstadt and Remington captured the essential loneliness of America as its people pushed ever further west. “Your people,” he said at one point with another pulse to her hand, but she didn’t squeeze back. He was so curious about Iowa, at times peppering her with strange questions that made her wonder if he’d ever stepped foot in a state that didn’t border one ocean or another. Was there really a gigantic butter cow at the county fair? (Yes.) Was high school football a religion? (Blasphemous, but not untrue.) Was sex ed limited to abstinence and shame? Jenny had given him a long look for that one. “Gregory. I was raised by two progressives who caucused for Howard Dean in a church basement. They made sure I knew how to put a condom on a banana by sophomore year of high school.” He’d called that hot, which seemed to miss the point. She’d let him kiss her anyway.
November 9, 2025 at 6:06 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
UMM THIS JUST HAPPENED
The poster has just completed a full developmental re-edit of her manuscript and this image--allegedly proof--consisting only of black text on a white background states: THE END Eighth draft/developmental re-edit complete: November 8, 2025 10:15 AM
November 8, 2025 at 6:32 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 8 #WIPsnips – “little”

Sometimes it’s size, and sometimes it’s perspective. Jenny and Gregory are discussing Shelley’s “Mont Blanc,” but is that really all they’re talking about? As he likes to tell his students, “There’s no text without subtext.” A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
“Gregory,” she said, and the shape of it was wobbly in her mouth. She decided she liked it. “I guess… I get what it means to be in awe of vastness. Like, back in Mansfield—that’s where I’m from in Iowa, it’s up by the Minnesota border—sometimes, I’d be outside at night, just to look at the stars, and I felt so small. Like the night sky stretched on forever, and here I was, one miniscule person, but that was okay. That my smallness was my place in the world.” Gregory leaned closer again, even though Malcolm had turned the music down a few songs ago. “Go on.” “But Shelley isn’t just talking about Mont Blanc, about the mountain, is he? He’s talking about that moment when you’re facing down something enormous, something completely unconscious of you, little you, and…” She trailed off, embarrassed. She’d never exposed herself like this to anyone, let alone to a teacher, and she ducked her head. “And?” The room’s warmth squeezed the breath from her lungs, like she was drowning without a drop of water nearby. She looked up, and Gregory’s brown eyes were kind, so kind, had she ever known someone so kind? “And beautiful. Beautiful, and terrifying. Beneath the sky, I was nothing to the stars, no matter how beautiful I thought they were. The vastness scares me, but I have to look.” Gregory—for he was Gregory now, as he ever would be from now on—exhaled. “‘Power dwells apart in its tranquility,’” he recited. “‘Remote, serene, and inaccessible…’ Inaccessible, but we can’t keep ourselves from trying to touch it, can we?” Jenny nodded and finished her glass. “You’re right, Gregory.” Yes, she liked the shape of his name in her mouth just fine.
November 8, 2025 at 3:43 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
For we so care about our listeners, we put out TWO episodes this week. Don't ever say we don't love you. I mean, you could. We don't know where you live. Yet.

Also we've entered our podcast series era, which can only mean the HelloFresh and Quince money is coming soon, right? RIGHT?????? #writesky
November 7, 2025 at 7:34 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 6 #WIPsnips – “penultimate”

Hoo boy, reaching into the vaults for this synonym. Somewhere out there on the interwebs lurks the 500k fake blog of a character I created with my writing buddy @kirkrafferty.com for the purposes of forum mischief-making. This was part of her entry for 1/10/20.
The days in this new year are passing too quickly, filled up by all of the very last tasks required to pack up our lives in Berkeley and transplant ourselves to the sunny kingdom by the sea — truly by the sea this time, as our new apartment is a scant five blocks from the beach. On a slightly dismal Friday morning — my second-to-last in the once-tidy A-frame studio — I ticked off my duties, one by one. ☒ Clean bathtub ☒ Beat rag rug ☒ Countertops cleaned with vinegar and lemon spray ☒ Sweep deck ☒ Books back to library (check in loft to make sure Alex not hiding any) By lunchtime the day’s list of chores had shrunk to the one that made my head hurt even more than the fumes from the Ka-Boom bathroom cleaner. ☐ Call Julian
November 6, 2025 at 5:28 PM
Reposted by ✨Meagan Thompson-Mann is back in the querying trenches🫠
bvbodegom.bsky.social
CABIN IN THE WOODS × JOHN DIES AT THE END

When their detective friend is murdered during their annual gaming retreat, 5 dads must rely on years of #TTRPG experience—and puns—to solve the crime before they're all killed off like NPCs in a badly written supernatural campaign.

#QuestPit #A #H #M
The image, made with free non-AI stock pictures, shows a horror-comedy novel cover titled "DAD BODIES." The top of the cover reads "THE GAME JUST TOOK A DAD TURN" with "DAD" in a different color. The background features a haunted house with multiple towers and illuminated windows against a dark backdrop. At the center is a 20-sided die (D20) used in tabletop role-playing games like Dungeons & Dragons, with visible numbers including 1, 7, 13, and 19. The die is surrounded by red blood splatter effects. At the bottom of the cover are six men with expressions of terror and shock. One man is wearing a white shirt over his head. These men are the dads referenced in the title.
November 5, 2025 at 6:47 PM
Reposted by ✨Meagan Thompson-Mann is back in the querying trenches🫠
booksbysydney.bsky.social
Them: Omg I wish there was a Dancing with the Stars romcom.
Me: Hold my beer

THE WINNER TAKES IT ALL ✨

💜Showmance
🪩Sunshine female competitor x Grumpy male pro
💜Nanny x Single dad
🪩Ballroom, studio, and country dancing
💜Mutual Pining
🪩Dual POV

#QuestPit #A #R #AG #W
digital art commission of a couple dancing a waltz under a silver spotlight tropes list for a dancing with the stars inspired romcom
November 5, 2025 at 9:28 PM
Reposted by ✨Meagan Thompson-Mann is back in the querying trenches🫠
myquirkywriting.swifties.social
Editors, The Bitch Pack was a group of brilliant dancers helmed by the charismatic patron Lovey. After the company collapsed, and her final muse's disappearance, Frankie is assigned to tell Lovey's story. But not all stories are as simple as tragedy.
#QuestPit #A #HF #OS
November 5, 2025 at 9:39 PM
Reposted by ✨Meagan Thompson-Mann is back in the querying trenches🫠
alibarwrites.bsky.social
My Sister The Serial Killer X Such A Fun Age X Yellowface

💷Sterile wealth
💭Inner cynical monologues
🇬🇧UK vibes
🤰🏾Post maternity
🪞Identity and race

Murdering your ex-boss is hard. Murdering him in his Chelsea mansion? 75% harder🔪

#questpit #W #A #T
A black woman on poster with text Text on black background Text on black background Book covers on black background
November 5, 2025 at 9:44 PM