Monson Madame Judge Dreadlocks Delivers Child Prostitute To Ware For Glad-To-Gland Combat With 71 Year Old Chudstuffer
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Monson used to be such a “nice” town. Nestled snugly next to Wilbraham and Hampden, one could mistake it for a starter town for the upper-middle class. It has a sleepy downtown with a little 8-aisle grocery store. A full service gas station. Lots of historic homes. Unfortunately, it also sits next to Palmer and Stafford Springs, CT.
Stafford Springs is where every toothless NASCAR fan in a 50 mile radius dives upon for their amateur race track. It looks like a baby version of Southbridge. Palmer is where everyone from Ware moves when they get a car and finally scrape together “first and last” after their tax returns. Moving up like George and Wheezy, indeed.
As you drive along Route 32 Monson, you’ll notice several modestly appointed homes. Nothing too remarkable, nothing too shabby. There’s one well-kept antique Victorian for every boring 1980s ranch home. It isn’t until you get closer to the Palmer line that you really something almost remarkable: a trailer park.
Now, there is nothing inherently wrong with trailer parks. Some of them are nice little communities of good people who want cheap houses. You’ve got your double wides and then there’s some of them you can’t even tell are a trailer. Some of them are 55+ places and they keep all the oldsters away from the whippersnappers — who can blame them? But the one in Monson isn’t just any mobile home park. It’s a real live trailer park. Ray’s to be exact.
It’s called Ray’s Trailer Park. They couldn’t be bothered to give it a cutesy name like Glenwood Heights Mobile Community or Quaboag River Mobile Home Park. Nothing that real estate agents could use as a guise for what they’re really hocking when one goes on the market. Nah, this here is RAY’S TRAILER PARK. I’m sure, somewhere, there’s a “Ray” who started it all and he’s toothless and wears overalls with no shirt. It sounds like a little piece of Winchentucky transplanted in the 413.
Inside of this wonderment of middle aged double wides (some of them have hot tubs!) lives this schmuck: Claire Poole.
What did this living, breathing cultural appropriation do in the little town of Monson that was so noteworthy? Looking at her face, there’s so many opportunities! Maybe she was selling stolen merchandise! Maybe she was a heroin addict who OD’d at the local gas station! Maybe she left her children sitting in a 105-degree 1991 Chevy Lumina with the AC blowing hot air while she ran into Walmart to get her prescriptions!
None of that would be true. Claire Poole did not do any of those things. She was a pimp! Not just ANY pimp, neither. Claire Poole PIMPED. OUT. A. TEENAGER. From her trailer home. I’m not talking about freshly legal 19-year-old junior smokeshows. We’re talking about a CHILD here. As in “not 18”, as in “can’t drive yet”, as in “what the fuck?”
A joint investigation by the Monson and Ware police departments led to charges against two people allegedly involved in the prostitution of a minor. Claire E. Poole, 39, of 268 Palmer Rd. in Monson, and Walter C. Brown, 71, of 123 River Rd. in Ware, were arrested on Friday. The Northwestern District Attorney’s Office said Poole set up meetings for sex between a young teenager and Brown, and provided transportation. She also kept some of the proceeds of the prostitution, investigators said. Poole is charged with inducing a minor for prostitution, deriving support from child prostitution, exhibiting a child in a sexual act, distributing material depicting a child in a sexual act and human trafficking.
I mean, 2 questions loom in the air. How come Claire Poole can’t pimp herself out? Oh, that’s right. Her ravioli probably has been permanently busted since 1995 and now it looks like a roast beef sandwich on wheat with extra cheese. If she could choose to “hold the mayo”, she probably would — but she hasn’t had any muscle control in that orifice in least 20 years. The only thing that pusnag is “holding” is “on for dear motherfucking life” these days.
That’s one question.
Who buys a teenage girl near Monson for sex?
This motherfucker right here!
Walter “if there’s grass on the field, play ball” Brown. From where? Yes. Ware. Of course. Where else? You could tell me he was from Brockton, I’d shake my head. You could tell me he was from North Adams. I’d be like “You’re pulling my leg!” Tell me he’s from Ware and I’ll know you’re talking real shit. Oh, and he’s seventy one years old. Because you’re never too old to fuck a teenager in Ware.
Let us consider this for a moment. Let’s just assume that maybe Claire’s childlike empress is 17 years old (that’s generous because I’m sure she wasn’t). Walter, here, is 71. Walter paid to bang a girl 54 years younger. This guy could be her grampy, for God sakes. This is not what Grampys do. They don’t slip teen girls geriatic peen! They slip their teenage granddaughters secret $20 — not for sex, but because she told him she wanted to go out for ice cream, but she was really trying to score a dime bag of mids with her girls for Saturday. That’s what Grampys are for! Not for diddling little girls!
Can I say it again? SEVENTY ONE! Fucker’s probably doubling up on Viagra by now. Let us just all collectively wince as we consider what his internet search history looks like. Now imagine him sitting before his ancient Dell computer holding a Pall Mall drinking Rubinoff vodka straight in an airless room with all the windows closed. Yes, thankfully you asked, Walter *also* lives in a trailer — but on his own lot. Yuppers, so it’s on his OWN terms. I’m going to guarantee he drives a 2000 Chrysler minivan. For no reason. No blacked out windows. Just a rust bucket minivan. It’s probably purple. I know they made them in purple back then.
You can always count on Ware. Even when they’re not the main focus of an article, you can be sure they’ll force their way in there somehow. Keep it classy, guys. Hey Monson, you keep on that “up and coming” list there, OK? We ain’t seen the last of you now. You’re on the radar!
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